Enthralled
by DamnDonnerGirls
Summary: Thrall (þræll), n., a slave or serf in Viking Age Scandinavia. After a successful raid, Gale is rewarded with a slave girl: the Saxon noblewoman Madge. Meanwhile, shieldmaiden Katniss grows closer to captive monk Peeta. Gadge, Everlark.
1. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER**

I do not own the Hunger Games universe or characters. In fact, in a way, they own me.

****IMPORTANT, PLEASE READ****

I love history, but this is my first attempt at historical fiction. To prepare, I read Roesdahl (non-fiction), Bengtsson (fiction), and D'Aulaire (mythology) but I am in no way an expert on the Viking Age. I apologize in advance for any inaccuracies and welcome all constructive criticism.

Many of the names have been modified to look and/or sound more Old Norse, though it was rarely possible to do both. I have borrowed from the Icelandic alphabet, the only living language that still uses the Old Norse letters þÞ and Ðð (both pronounced similar to "th"). I have also borrowed some words from modern Danish, Norwegian, and Swedish. However, I am not fluent in any of these languages, and I apologize to my Nordic readers for mangling their native tongues.

I hope you like it!

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_Title:_

**Enthralled**

_Summary:_

Thrall (_þræll_), n., a slave or serf in Viking Age Scandinavia.

After a successful raid, Gale is rewarded with a slave girl: the Saxon noblewoman Madge. Meanwhile, shieldmaiden Katniss grows closer to captive monk Peeta.

[Gale/Madge], [Katniss/Peeta]

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By the time the summer raids came to an end and the Northmen set sail for home, Gæl Hallvardson desired nothing more but to sacrifice a thousand goats, and possibly the Christian priest Peeta, to Odin the All-Father.

They had lost many men, perhaps the most in recent memory, but all who survived agreed it had been a successful journey. For Gæl, it was especially so. Though it was but the third time he had gone a-viking, the eighteen-year-old was already one of the finest fighters from Tolv, and he was given ever higher shares of whatever booty they obtained. It was also no small matter that, as apprentice to the shipwright Beetee, Gæl had helped build their longboats with his own two hands. The sleek vessels were lighter, faster, more capable, and it filled the young man with pride in a way that no amount of silver could.

But the gods in their wisdom do not grant happiness easily, and there was good cause for the scowl that seemed permanently etched into the young warrior's handsome features. Chief among his troubles was the shieldmaiden sitting a ways from him, mending her arrows and listening patiently to Jórunnr's increasingly embellished recollections of her exploits.

In truth, Gæl had never noticed Katnisse until his fourteenth year. She was two years his junior, and she was nothing like the other girls who flocked to Gæl gushing about his strength or his cleverness. She had no time nor patience for frivolity; she had eyes only for her little sister Prim.

Then, one summer, her father and Gæl's sailed away on the longboats, never to return alive.

**.**  
**ooo**  
**.**

"_They are in Valhalla now," he said as they watched the funeral pyres blaze. "It is better to die in battle, than on your back on straw like a cow."_

"_I do not care about Valhalla," Katnisse replied bitterly, then all of twelve years old. "My family needs my father more than the gods do."_

_The son of a Northman is always ready to take his father's place, but even so it was not easy for Gæl with two young brothers and a newborn sister. He was fortunate that his mother was strong, having been a shieldmaiden almost until the day she gave birth to her third son, but Katnisse's mother was sickly and frail. He could only wonder how her family was getting by._

_He did not have to wonder for long. When Gæl ventured into the woods to catch some game, he witnessed Katnisse's hunting skills for the first time._

"_That is mine," Katnisse warned him, training her bow on Gæl as he crouched down to inspect the fallen deer._

"_I am not here to steal your deer," Gæl said as he removed the arrow from the creature's eye. "I am here to offer a trade."_

_And so their partnership began. Gæl taught Katnisse to set snares, and Katnisse taught Gæl to use a bow and arrow. Their households shared their meat and their crops, their linens and their furs, and while they were never wealthy, it was enough to stave off the hunger and cold of deepest winter._

_Throughout all of this, Katnisse was blossoming into a beautiful young woman, and Gæl's admiration for her skill and self-sufficiency grew into love. In his sixteenth summer, Gæl decided that it was time to ask for her hand in marriage. It was customary to ask her father but, under the circumstances, Katnisse was already the head of her household._

"_Katnisse," he said one night, "tomorrow I go a-viking for the first time. It may be that I will not return."_

_She nodded gravely. "I will take care of your family, the way you have taken care of mine. It will not be easy, but you have taught Róry and Vik well."_

_It was not the reaction for which Gæl had hoped, but he continued. "I am grateful for you. I could not have asked for a better partner. I only pray that you could be by my side at all times. Even as I fight, I will imagine that you are there, protecting me."_

_A slow smile bloomed on her lips. "If that is true, Gæl Hallvardson, your prayers will soon be granted."_

_Her words gave him pause. Gæl had extraordinary woman-luck, as his friend Bristl had called it, but Katnisse had never shown any interest..._

"_Your mother and mine are already in agreement," Katnisse informed him. "I am young still, only fourteen, so perhaps we will wait until the springtime."_

_He clasped her hands. "Is this true?"_

_She nodded, her eyes shining with happiness. "Yes, by Thor, it is true."_

_Overcome with joy, Gæl took her in his arms and crushed her body to his. She laughed as she returned his embrace. Encouraged by this, he lowered his head to hers, eager to claim what he knew to be her first kiss._

"_Stop!" Katnisse said, pushing him away. "What are you doing?"_

_He looked at her questioningly. "What does it look like I am doing? I am kissing my future bride."_

_She took a step back, her hand to her mouth. "I am not your future bride!"_

"_But you said—in the spring—" his voice faltered._

_Katnisse's face went crimson. "I was speaking of training, Gæl. My mother has agreed to let me train as a shieldmaiden. Your mother has told the jarl about my skill and strength, and he believes I will be an asset to the shield wall. I can protect you with my bow while you fight with sword and ax. Was that not your wish?"_

"_No—yes," he said. "Your bow can lead any army to victory. I will be honored to raid with you. But you can be a shieldmaiden and my wife at the same time. One does not exclude the other."_

_Katnisse's eyes filled with tears. "I am sorry," she whispered. "I care for you deeply, but I do not want to marry."_

**.**  
**ooo**  
**.**

"You look troubled, Geilir," Finnbjorn said, taking a seat next to Gæl. The winds were strong and there was no need to man the oars.

Gæl frowned at the handsome, redheaded warrior. "I have told you many times. Do not call me that."

Finn chuckled. "I am surprised your parents did not give you that name themselves; it suits you so."

"I am not in the mood for idle chatter," Gæl grumbled.

Finn followed Gæl's gaze to Katnisse and Jórunnr. "It is always difficult to fight alongside your beloved, but you have no reason to worry. She did well on her first raid. I have never seen such skill with the bow."

Gæl never spoke of his feelings, but he found himself speaking freely with Finn. "She is my beloved, but I am not hers. She says she does not want to marry."

In a low voice, Gæl added: "And yet I see the way she looks at the priest."

"Ah." Finn nodded sagely. "A fortunate thing, then, that the priest's god forbids him to love a woman."

Gæl grunted, shifting his attention to the priest in question. Gone were the black robes; the young Saxon was now clad in a simple shirt and breeches. With his blonde curls tied back and the beginnings of a beard on his cheeks and chin, Peeta no longer looked terribly out of place amongst the Northmen. He had been captured just the year before, and Finn himself had almost dealt the fatal blow before the priest began sputtering in broken Norse.

The jarl and his wife Eyfri took Peeta into their household as a thrall—a slave—even though it quickly became evident that Haymið valued the intelligent young man as something of an adviser. The jarl did not allow Peeta to baptize anyone, but he permitted him to grow his hair long, to distinguish him from other slaves. Haymið himself insisted that Peeta join future raids as a translator.

Even now, the jarl and the priest were deep in conversation, their heads bent towards each other, only occasionally looking over their shoulders at the captives they had of late taken from the kingdom of Panym.

"Haymið has something of a fascination with foreigners," Gæl observed.

"I understand he spent a month among their people, in his youth," Finn said. "It was his first raid and he had gotten separated from the group. A Saxon girl tended his wounds until he was rescued. It is said he was in love with her."

Gæl scoffed. "I find that difficult to believe. The jarl worships his wife as if she were Freyja herself."

Finn smirked. "It is the truth, I assure you. But Eyfri has nothing to fear. We both know a Saxon woman cannot compare to those in the North. One need only to look at my Anni, or your Katnisse, to know this is true." He paused. "Of course, there is always the exception."

Without looking, Gæl knew of whom Finn was speaking. The reason the raid had been so profitable was that they had chanced upon a nobleman's wedding feast, with all the silver, gold, and jewels that entailed. But there was no doubt that the biggest prize of all was the bride herself, with her flowing locks of gold and eyes of deepest sapphire. Even calm, steady Thome had been ready to fight the berserker Cato for her. Haymið had to order them to stop before he lost any more of his best men.

"She is called the lady Margaretha," Finn said, as if reading his mind. "Her husband—the man with the strange beard, the one whose throat you cleaved—is the son of the earl, whom you killed as well. Her family had fallen out of favor with the king, and it was hoped that the earl would grant protection to her people."

"How is it that you know all of this, Finn?" Gæl asked.

Finn smiled, dimples deepening in his cheeks. "There is something about me that makes people want to tell me their secrets." He popped a berry into his mouth. "But in this instance, I asked the priest. He had spoken to her earlier and soothed her fears. Haymið has ordered that she not be harmed."

Gæl nodded. Important captives were often ransomed for a high price, especially if they were Christian. It was not surprising that Lady Margaretha would be sold back to her people thus.

"That is good. I hope her family pays her weight in gold," he said. "If I am lucky, she will take the priest along with her, seeing as they have become fast friends."

Finn looked at him in amusement. "She has no family. King Coriolan executed her father and mother. The earl and his son are dead by your own hand. Haymið plans to keep Lady Margaretha in Tolv, as a thrall."

Gæl felt a twinge of sympathy for the girl. "That is a shame. Well, if nothing else, it shall be entertaining to watch the men fight to have her."

"We have lost too many men this summer. Haymið will not allow it. He will decide for himself, and he will have the last word."

"I do not envy the jarl's duties. I would not know to whom I should give her." Thome was his friend, but Cato was dangerous when he did not get what he wanted. And they were only two men out of many, many more.

"It is quite straightforward, in fact," Finn said slyly. "Tradition decrees that the bride is to be given to the man who kills her husband."

Gæl's face grew ashen. "You cannot mean..."

Finn clapped him on the back. "The gods are forever in your favor, Gæl Hallvardson."

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**AUTHOR'S NOTES:**

Fans of the History Channel TV series _Vikings _will have guessed that Peeta's character here is modeled after Athelstan.

"Tolv" is Danish/Norwegian/Swedish for "twelve". I've taken liberties and made Beetee, Jó, Finn, Eyfri, Anni, and Cato from Tolv as well.

"Geilir", Finn's nickname for Gæl, means "fiery, hot-tempered".

Finn is eating a berry because sugar wasn't widely available back then, not even to Vikings raiding a nobleman's wedding.

Yes, this story has Hayffie but there will be definitely be callbacks to my beloved Haysilee.

Anyone who wants to geek out over the Viking Age can PM me here, or hit up **damndonnergirls** on Tumblr.

**EDITED** on 6/12/2014 to remove the reference to Uppsala from the first paragraph. Many thanks to **epipole** who pointed out that Uppsala wasn't founded until much later!


	2. Chapter 2

Margaretha had always shown an aptitude for spying.

It was not intentional, at least not in the beginning. She had been playing hide-and-seek, and she was just congratulating herself on discovering another excellent hiding place when her father walked into the room. She was only six years old at the time, and did not understand a word of what he was saying to the earl, but she knew from their grave tones that it was important.

As Margaretha grew older, she began to seek it out: standing with her ear pressed to the door, crouching behind the strawberry bush, pretending to be asleep as her parents hovered over her bed and spoke in hushed voices. By themselves, the conversations she overheard and the messages she intercepted made no sense. But she pieced them together like parts of a puzzle, and soon it all became clear.

Her father was Lord Undersee, King Coriolan's master of coin, responsible for the royal treasury of Panym. But whenever people could not afford the full amount of their taxes, because crops failed or because disease decimated the livestock, Lord Undersee secretly falsified the accounts to show that they had no debt to the crown. Even when the king raised taxes to include "protection" from the dreaded Northmen and the books could no longer hide what the people owed, her father simply dipped into his own coffers to supply the difference.

"We can choose to live simply," her father told her mother. "Others are not so lucky."

Despite her father's efforts, unrest was brewing. The king was growing old, and becoming obsessed with immortality. The king decreed that each month, one village would be chosen to give additional tribute in the form of one young man and one young woman. What the king did with them, nobody knew. The tributes disappeared and were never heard from again.

"This is a tax that you cannot pay on the people's behalf," her father's good friend, the Earl of Heavensby, told him. The earl was seeking out rebels—noblemen and commoners alike—who shared his desire to overthrow the mad king, while remaining outwardly loyal to King Coriolan.

Margaretha was fifteen when Lord Undersee's treason was discovered. She did not know how or why. She only knew that one day, her mother roused her from slumber and told her that she had to leave immediately.

"You will go to Heavensby," Lady Magthilde said tersely. "The earl will protect you."

"Is it Father?" Margaretha asked. When her mother did not reply, Margaretha said, "I know everything, Mother. I have known for a while."

Lady Magthilde removed a gold medallion from her neck and put it around Margaretha's. "Our family sigil," she reminded her daughter. "The mockingjay. Promise me you will be brave."

Margaretha nodded, a lump forming in her throat.

Lady Magthilde threw her arms around her daughter. "We love you," she whispered. "Now fly, little bird, fly."

**.**

**ooo**

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Margaretha did not cry when she learned her parents had been burned at the stake. Neither did she cry when the tall, raven-haired Northman ran his sword through Earl Heavensby and buried his ax in Lord Seneca. She did not cry when the brutish blonde held her down and started to reach underneath her skirts, only to be challenged by another comrade.

But after they had set sail, when the young man with the kind blue eyes spoke to her in the language of her people, it was as if a dam had burst. A year's worth of despair was unleashed and she could not, for the life of her, stop it. The young man did not hesitate to wrap his arms around her, and she gratefully accepted his embrace.

He was a Saxon, she learned, a monk who had just taken his vows when he was captured. His name was Peeta. He assured her that the Northmen were kind to him, and that they would be kind to her as well.

"I am sure you have heard the stories that the priests tell, of Northmen robbing women of their virtue," Peeta said. "They are greatly exaggerated, and I dare say that I know of many Saxons who are worse, but the stories do contain some truth. Nevertheless, Haymið has already decided to whom he will give you, and you have my word that this man will not hurt you or force himself on you." He laughed. "He is madly in love with another. He has not given any other woman a second glance in years."

Anyone else would have missed the tinge of bitterness in the monk's tone, but Margaretha was nothing if not a keen observer.

**.**

**ooo**

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Pósy Hallvardsdottir launched herself into her eldest brother's arms the moment he stepped off the longboat. Róry immediately took possession of Gæl's weapons, while Vik basked in the privilege of carrying his shield.

It was good to be back in Tolv.

"Welcome home, son," Hejsel greeted him warmly. "I am glad that you came back with your shield, not on it."

Gæl kissed his mother's cheek, Pósy's arms still wrapped around his neck. "As am I. We lost many men, but we also brought back much silver and gold. It will be a comfortable winter."

"Gæl, Gæl, Mama said you were bringing home a present for me," the four-year-old demanded. "What is it?"

"A new sister, of course!" Finn said jovially, appearing at Gæl's side with his heavily pregnant wife, Anlaug, in tow.

Pósy's eyes grew round. "A sister?" she shrieked. "Gæl, you are the strongest, bravest, most wonderful brother ever! Where is she?"

"Yes, Gæl," Hejsel said, her eyebrow raised. "I too would like to see Pósy's new sister."

Gæl shot his redheaded friend a scathing look. "It is not true, Mother," he said. "I am afraid Finnbjorn has suffered many injuries to the head. I would not believe a word he says."

Anni took it upon herself to explain. "Finn is not lying, but neither is he telling the whole truth," she said gently. "Gæl has won himself a prize. A beautiful Saxon girl."

"I did not win myself a prize," Gæl scowled. "I killed her husband, and Haymið would rather give her to me than let the men fight for her."

"Or Haymið knew that Katnisse did not want to marry you," Róry said.

Gæl rounded on his brother with a murderous look in his eyes.

Hejsel stepped between them before Gæl could knock his brother to the ground. "Let us see this girl," she interrupted, "while I still have three sons."

**.**

**ooo**

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"This man?" Margaretha whispered fearfully. "He killed my husband and my father-in-law!"

"That is precisely why," Peeta said under his breath. "According to their traditions, that gives him the right to you."

Not for the first time, Margaretha bemoaned the fact that she was born a woman. "How can you be sure that he will not hurt me?"

"I told you, he loves another. And you can see for yourself that he is devoted to his family."

The Northman looked as menacing as ever, with his heavy eyebrows knitted together and his imposing frame looming over everyone else in the room. But the effect was decidedly diminished by the small child who was clinging to him and smiling brightly every time she caught Margaretha's eye.

"His sister Pósy is rather delightful," Peeta noted.

They were accompanied by their mother—a tall, handsome woman who had the proud carriage of a warrior—and two boys who looked exactly like their brother.

Peeta translated for Margaretha as Haymið spoke to Gæl Hallvardson and his family.

"The girl is your thrall," Haymið declared. "She will help around the household and the farm as you see fit."

"I do not want a thrall," Gæl said stubbornly. "We have never had one, and we will never need one."

"If we have a thrall," Hejsel said, "you can spend more time apprenticing with Beetee. I think it is a good opportunity."

Gæl glowered. "She does not speak our language. She is a noblewoman and not accustomed to hard labor. She will be useless."

"Peeta will teach her," Haymið said. "He will stay with you and teach her until she learns. I will pay you for his upkeep, so you need not spend your own silver."

"My house is small enough without two thralls needing a bed," Gæl said.

"You built a new house with last year's booty, did you not?" Haymið replied. That Gæl had built the house for Katnisse was left unspoken. "Stay there and let the thralls stay in the old house."

The matter thus resolved, Haymið waved Gæl away. The little girl urged him to a stop in front of Margaretha, presumably so she could speak to the beautiful foreigner, but she was suddenly overcome by shyness and instead hid her face in her brother's broad shoulder.

As for Gæl, he looked at Margaretha from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. It was not a look filled with desire or lust, but it put her ill at ease just the same. He muttered a few words before stalking off.

"What did he say?" Margaretha asked.

Peeta grimaced. "'Pretty dress.'"

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**AUTHOR'S NOTES:**

And that was chapter two! I hope you liked it. There was a lot of stuff I cut out because it wasn't flowing very well, but I will probably use those bits later.

Hejsel's motherly greeting (*cough*) was paraphrased from Frank Miller's _300_.

Thank you to everyone who reviewed, favorited, or followed this story, and everyone who liked it on Tumblr. In true Viking fashion, I plan to post a new chapter every Thorsday. And yes, I do plan to eventually change the rating to M.


	3. Chapter 3

A lifetime of hunting could not have prepared Katnisse for the carnage of her first raid.

Oh, she was an excellent warrior, of that there was no doubt. Her aim was true; not a single arrow was wasted. Without her skill, many more of their company would surely have perished.

But when the battle was won, and Jórunnr climbed over a pile of corpses to stand by her side, Katnisse looked at her friend's blood-spattered face and realized with horror that it was a reflection of her own.

"You wanted to be a shieldmaiden," Katnisse reminded herself over and over. "You volunteered—begged—for the opportunity. This is the best way to provide for your family. Your father went a-viking, and so did his father before him. Now it is your turn. You must be like the valkyrie Brynhildr, fearless and formidable. No hesitations. No regrets."

**.**

**ooo**

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_In hindsight, the seeds of doubt had been sown as early as the start of her shieldmaiden training. That was when Katnisse truly grasped the enormity of what she would be expected to do on the battlefield. But she did not speak a word of her uncertainty to anyone, not to Gæl, Jó, or Hejsel. Not even to her beloved sister Prim._

_Only once did she betray the contents of her heart. It was in the spring before they went abroad. The priest and translator Peeta had begun training with the warriors, so he could defend himself rather than rely on another. Finnbjorn always paired him with Katnisse, saying that she—an archer and fellow first-time raider—was not likely to injure him._

_Katnisse was enraged at what she perceived to be Finn's underestimation of her ability. She responded by immediately laying Peeta out flat._

_She regretted her actions as soon as she saw the wounded look in his astonishingly blue eyes. But she was proud and continued to fight in earnest while she still had the advantage. Peeta was strong, and a quick study besides._

_Although the Northmen rarely engaged in unarmed combat during their raids, it was still something that they all had to practice. Peeta was naturally adept at grappling, easily mastering in a month the techniques Katnisse had been learning for a year. Many times did Katnisse find herself on her back in the dirt, her legs wrapped around his torso but unable to gain purchase._

"_You are getting better," Katnisse conceded, flushed and panting, after one such match._

_He hovered over her, so close that his sweat dripped onto her face. "I grew up with two brothers. This was our favorite pastime."_

_Katnisse soon felt comfortable enough with the young Saxon to sit next to him during their rest periods._

"_Here to finish me off, sweetheart?" Peeta said lightly as she drew near. He had been hesitant all day, as if he did not want to lay a hand on her. As a result, Katnisse had given him a beating._

_She ignored the pet name he had picked up from Haymið, and instead sat quietly as she collected her thoughts. Finally, she dared ask the question that weighed so heavily on her mind. "What does your god think of killing other men?"_

_The priest looked startled, then introspective. "Christ once said, 'love thy enemy'. If a man strikes your cheek, you should turn and bid him to strike the other."_

_The shieldmaiden snorted. "That is ridiculous. Even Prim would think so, and she would not hurt the lice on one's head."_

"_That is what is written in our holy book. But Christ's ancestors, and those who now call themselves his disciples, well... they could be as cruel and warlike as any of your gods. They murder and torture in the name of God, and it seems they are not punished for their sins." Peeta turned his face up to the sky, his eyes closed. "There are many things about my god that I do not understand. Things I may never be capable of understanding."_

_His long blonde eyelashes caught the sunlight. Katnisse watched, spellbound, an unexpected warmth beginning to spread throughout her body._

"_Can you find happiness, serving a god whom you may never truly understand?" she wondered aloud._

_Peeta opened his eyes and touched his chest, an old habit from when he still wore a cross around his neck. "My unworthy mind can form but one explanation: that we are merely pieces in some divine game. I have come to realize that I do not want to be a plaything of the gods, whether mine, yours, or anyone else's. As a monk, who swore to live a life of obedience, this fills me with shame. My faith has given me much joy and I do not wish to throw it away."_

"_There must be a middle way," Katnisse said. "It is foolish to turn the other cheek as your Christ prescribed. But to be responsible for so much death... it is a burden that others can carry much more easily than I."_

_She clenched her bloodied hands into fists. "You must think me strange, a shieldmaiden who would rather not kill."_

_Peeta smiled, a sweet, gentle smile that lit up his face from within. "I have never met anyone like you, Katnisse. But no, I do not find you strange at all."_

_The warmth was becoming too much to bear. Katnisse averted her gaze quickly, only to meet Gæl's accusing stare. His silver eyes were no less beautiful than Peeta's and infinitely more familiar, but today they gave her no comfort. _My dearest friend, please understand,_ she begged him silently._

_Gæl turned away, and a bitter taste filled Katnisse's mouth. Perhaps she should not emulate Brynhildr after all. For all of her bravery in battle, the legendary warrior's downfall was love._

**.**

**ooo**

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Gæl's new thralls were assigned their first task almost immediately after his audience with Haymið. By this time, other thralls had finished unloading the ships, and the warriors were busy filling carts with their share of the booty.

Róry and Vik started loading the family carts, as was their custom every time their brother returned from the raids, but Gæl stopped them. "The thralls might as well start earning their keep," he said curtly.

"It will be faster if we help," Róry said.

Gæl glared at him. He had not yet forgiven his brother for what he said about Katnisse, even if it was the truth. "You will not lift a finger."

Róry looked to their mother for support, but Hejsel shook her head. "Do as your brother says." She knew to pick her battles with her headstrong firstborn son.

Peeta exchanged a few words with Margaretha in their language, and she nodded. He set to work on the larger, heavier chests full of silver and gold, while she carried the smaller chests full of jewels and spices.

The slender, delicate young woman was stronger than Gæl expected, although of course he had not expected her to possess any strength whatsoever. But before Gæl could admit to himself that perhaps the lady Margaretha was not so useless after all, she stumbled over the voluminous folds of her long wedding dress and sent rubies and emeralds flying in all directions.

Gæl put his head in his hands and groaned audibly.

Peeta rushed to her aid, and so did Gæl's brothers. Even Pósy joined in, scooping up jewels with her little hands.

Hejsel watched for a while, then turned to her eldest. "I have been thinking. You should sleep with the thralls."

Four dark-haired heads whipped around to stare at their mother.

"Stay in the old house with them," Hejsel clarified. "It is hardly appropriate for Margaretha and Peeta to spend their nights together unsupervised, even if he has vowed never to have sex."

Gael flinched at the word. "But I should stay with you and the children, for your protection. With these riches, who knows what thieves will take an interest in us?"

The former shieldmaiden looked at him coolly. "Thank you for your concern, but I can defend my children well enough. Besides, any thief who comes to our house from now on will be more likely to steal the beautiful foreign maiden, rather than riches that he could find anywhere else."

"I can do it," Vik volunteered. "I can sleep with Margaretha and Peeta."

Gæl's face flamed. "You will do nothing of the sort," he snapped at his youngest brother.

"Me, pick me!" Pósy piped up. "I want to stay with my pretty new sister."

Gael made a strangled noise in his throat. "No, Pósy. And for the last time, she is not your sister."

"Not yet," Pósy replied matter-of-factly before proceeding to suck her thumb.

"Róry, you will do it," Gæl declared, his mind made up. "After all, you stayed with Prim and her mother all summer while Katnisse was away."

Róry scowled. Whenever he did this, it seemed as if his transformation into Gæl was complete. "I do not think Prim would much like me to sleep anywhere near a girl like that," he said, inclining his head towards Margaretha.

"On the contrary, it is the perfect opportunity for you to prove your loyalty," Gæl countered. He resisted the urge to point out that Róry and Prim were only thirteen and twelve, respectively. He knew it would only backfire on him. "Prim will be very flattered if you still choose her, after spending so much time with the thrall."

"Róry, you will stay with Margaretha and Peeta," Hejsel ordered. "And Gæl, you are to call them by their true names. I know you are unhappy with the circumstances, but so are they. They have lost their freedom, their families, and the gods know what else. They deserve this basic courtesy."

Gæl knew his mother was right, and despite his pride he also knew that he should set a good example for his siblings. "I will, Mother," he said humbly. "Forgive me. I acted out of frustration."

He watched Margaretha limp to the cart with another chest in her arms. If she was going to be his thrall, Gæl thought, the first thing she had to do was take that damned dress off. It kept getting in the way.

Images arose unbidden in his mind. _No, not that,_ he thought. _Never that._ Gæl cursed Haymið under his breath.

This was a bad, bad idea indeed.

.

* * *

.

**AUTHOR'S NOTES:**

Brynhildr's story (in the sagas) is very different from Katnisse's, but they were both BAMFs whose man problems sometimes overshadowed their true awesomeness.

I hope you didn't mind the comparative religion. Everlark isn't going to happen without some reevaluation of Peeta's vows :)

For those who asked/are curious: I would estimate that this story is about 60% Gadge and 40% Everlark, though it's difficult to define the exact boundaries because developments for one pairing would also significantly affect the other.


	4. Chapter 4

Stories have wings. They fly over seas and meadows, through blistering cold and scorching sun. They travel on the lips of poets and in the hearts of children, taking root in lands far from where they came. No balm, no ale can comfort the soul of a weary wanderer more than a familiar tale that reminds them of home.

The skalds of the North and the bards of the Saxons alike tell of a young hunter who chanced upon a flock of swans bathing in a lake. He watched in astonishment as the graceful birds shed their feathery white robes, transforming into beautiful maidens before his eyes.

The youngest was the fairest of them all, and the hunter fell in love with her at first sight. Alas, before he could summon the courage to approach, she and her sisters donned their feathers once more and took to the skies.

Some say it was his mother who told him the secret of the swans; others say it was a mysterious old man. What is certain is that, the next time the young hunter saw the maidens at the lake, he crept forth and stole the robe belonging to his intended. (Some storytellers say he also took her enchanted necklace of gold.) Without her magical garb, she could no longer fly. Thus did the hunter claim the beautiful young woman as his captive.

The swan maiden became his wife and bore him many children. One day, however, she found the white robes and gold necklace that her husband had hidden from her. With one touch, she returned to her swan form and flew away.

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

Margaretha had never been so tired.

From the moment she slipped off her heavy white dress, she was no longer Lady Margaretha, noblewoman from the Saxon kingdom of Panym, daughter of the king's master of coin, wedded to the son of a wealthy earl. In her simple linen shift and apron, she was but another thrall in the North, working ceaselessly from the moment she opened her eyes in the morning until the moment she closed them at night.

All vestiges of her old life had been stripped away, even from her dreams. At first she went to bed eagerly, hoping to glimpse a vision of her parents, their old home, anything to remind her of what she had once been. But there were no dreams to be had in the sleep of a slave, only fleeting images of the sullen man who had taken her freedom.

"Did you ever try to escape?" she whispered to Peeta at night, after Róry was asleep and snoring lightly. "You say they treat you well here, but surely you would rather be a free man."

"I jumped overboard," Peeta admitted, "on the journey to Tolv, when I was first captured. I do not know how to swim, but I was desperate. I would surely have perished."

"Yet you are alive to tell the tale."

"I am alive because Finn saved me."

"Finn?" Margaretha recalled the flame-haired Northman who fought with a trident, the three-pronged spear she had previously only seen in her father's books of ancient pagan empires. He was conceivably the most beautiful man she had ever met, and certainly the most maddeningly cocksure. Once, on the ship, he caught her looking and winked in a playful manner that infuriated her endlessly. "Was he not the one who almost killed you when they raided the monastery?"

In the flickering glow of the hearth, she saw Peeta smile ruefully. "Yes, he was," he affirmed. "Days later, he jumped into the sea and kept me from drowning."

Margaretha pulled the blankets tighter around her. "How strange these Northmen are."

"They are survivors," Peeta said. "Their land can be impossibly beautiful, but it can also be harsh and unforgiving. They do what they must to survive. They do not wish to kill, but they will do so if it means they may live, or if it can end suffering. Finn was ready to kill me before I proved I could speak their language. Afterwards, he protected me, because he knew I could be of use to his people."

"But it is not a matter of being useful," she argued. "We are human beings. Even if you could not speak their language, even if you could not speak at all, you have worth. How can you defend people who do not respect life? How can you speak kindly of the man who nearly took yours?"

The monk was silent for a moment. "Perhaps in the eyes of the Lord we are the same, but here on earth there is no equality," Peeta replied at last, his voice tinged with sadness. "Nobody needs me; my death would have inconvenienced no-one. But Finn is a husband, and soon he will be a father. Finn's life will be spent protecting his wife and child. Anyone would agree that his life is more valuable than mine."

Margaretha felt as if an icy hand was crushing her heart. "If that is true, then I wish King Coriolan had taken me as tribute, instead of burning my parents at the stake. My father and mother helped so many people, and they could have helped many more. It is as Gæl said. I am useless."

The light of the fire danced in Peeta's eyes. "It does not matter what Gæl says, Margaretha. All that matters is that you prove him wrong."

**.**  
**ooo**  
**.**

At first she was given simple, unpleasant chores, things that required little skill, things that often concerned excrement. She mucked the animal stalls in the morning and again in the evening, burying the waste in the ground as there was no pressing need for fertilizer. Then Vik taught her to milk the goats and the cows, a task she performed twice a day while Pósy fed the chickens and the geese. Hejsel taught her to wash and mend clothes while the older woman sat at the loom, and to grind grain in a quern while Hejsel prepared their meals.

At night, Peeta returned from the pastures to teach her Norse. "A long time ago, the Saxons lived south of the land of the Danes," he explained. "Our languages are like brothers. Though they now lead different lives, they had grown up side by side, and the similarities are plain to anyone who cares to look."

Margaretha found the lessons enjoyable, and every day she understood more and more of what she heard around her. Peeta was delighted to watch her skills grow. He was less than amused, however, when Róry joined in. The thirteen-year-old helpfully contributed words and phrases that left the gentle monk scandalized.

"We need to teach her important words," Peeta protested. "Proper words. Words she will need to work and communicate with you and your family."

"Stinkfart is an important word," Róry said solemnly. "I use it at least three times a day to describe Gæl."

By this time Margaretha knew enough to understand their exchange, and it made her laugh merrily for the first time since she was fifteen.

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

The eldest Hallvardson was a rare sight to be seen on the farm. As Hejsel predicted, the presence of the thralls allowed Róry and Vik to take over many of the things that Gæl normally had to do. He therefore spent most of his time in town, trading the precious metals and jewels he had acquired abroad and helping Beetee repair the longboats. Once he returned with a deer slung over his shoulders and Katnisse not far behind.

"Hello, Peeta," the shieldmaiden said warmly.

Startled, the monk lost his grip on the sheep he was shearing. Peeta fell backwards into the ground while the animal dashed outdoors, bleating, its fleece dangling from one side.

"Katnisse," he greeted her, his cheeks pink. "It is good to see you again."

"I do not need to hunt so much anymore," Katnisse said. "But I find the taste of game preferable to that of farm animals."

"That is because you have never had my lamb stew," Peeta told her, having regained his composure. "Eyfri says it is the best she has ever tasted."

Katnisse tucked a stray braid behind her ear. "Perhaps you should visit my family and make it for us. Prim enjoys your company."

Gæl threw the deer down with a thud. "You should chase that sheep down, Peeta," he said shortly, "before it runs back to the meadow."

Across the room, Róry caught Margaretha's eye. "Stinkfart," he mouthed.

Margaretha ducked her head to hide her smile. Róry's language lessons were proving to be as useful as Peeta's.

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

Margaretha knew she was making progress when Hejsel asked her to help prepare the morning meal.

They ate the same thing, barley or sometimes oats boiled in water, every day without fail. Sometimes they mixed in honey, other times they added a touch of milk or cream. It was as much a part of their morning as the sunrise.

"Can I try something different?" she asked hesitantly after a week. "My mother used to cook porridge with spices. I would like to make it for you, if it pleases you."

The older woman looked surprised, but she acquiesced with a smile. "You are such a quiet thing, I did not know how much your Norse had improved until now," Hejsel complimented the thrall. "And yes, I would certainly like to try your mother's porridge."

Later, when the family was gathered around the cooking fire, Margaretha stood to one side and bit her lip nervously as Hejsel's children peered curiously into their bowls.

"What is in the porridge?" Gæl asked, poking at the brown specks on his food.

"Cow's milk, and spices from your expedition abroad," Hejsel answered, beckoning to Margaretha. "Come, tell Gæl about what you have prepared."

"The spices are called cinnamon and cardamom," Margaretha said softly. "They grow in faraway lands that the snows do not touch. We used to get them from Arab merchants."

"Hmph." He tasted the porridge. If he was impressed by her cooking, or by her command of his language, he did not show it. "I was told that small amounts of these spices can cost four head of cattle or more. I hope the princess does not expect to have such luxuries every day."

"There are many more things that you brought back, that only Margaretha and Peeta know how to use," Hejsel told her son. "They are quite clever. We can learn much from them."

Gæl poured in a little more honey. "It is a strange flavor. I do not think I like it."

Later, nobody dared point out that Gæl had polished off three large helpings.

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

After Margaretha's success with the porridge, it was not long before Hejsel entrusted her with the dairy.

She approached her new responsibility with enthusiasm. She had spent the previous day bent over the quern until her back ached and her arms were so sore she feared they would fall off. Surely this task was infinitely preferable to grinding grain, and certainly more interesting than digging holes for dung.

But as Hejsel rattled off the instructions, going through each process and technique, the younger woman began to feel her head spin. Cream, butter, buttermilk, curds, whey, cheese, _skyr_…

And then Margaretha found herself alone, surrounded by milk and with no idea how to proceed. Hejsel had taken Pósy with her to run errands in town; Peeta, Gæl, and the boys were harvesting hay.

"You can do this," she muttered, willing herself to take deep breaths. "Just think back to what Hejsel taught you. Remember, every part of the milk is used. Nothing is wasted. Once you complete one task, the results will remind you of the next step."

So she set about her work, pouring milk into vessels and trying to recall everything Hejsel had said. When she finished churning and saw that she had indeed succeeded in making butter, she felt her confidence begin to return. By the time Hejsel and Pósy came back, she was all smiles.

"I was worried, but I think I am doing all right," she informed them. "I am almost done making the cheese."

However, Hejsel did not return her smile. "Something smells… different." She lifted the lid of each pot, checking the contents.

Margaretha felt her heart plummet into her stomach. "What is wrong?"

Hejsel looked stricken. "Margaretha, did you boil the whey?"

"Yes," the thrall said uncertainly. "Should I… not have done so?"

"The whey is for drinking and pickling," the older woman explained. "Not for cheese."

A commotion by the door meant the boys had returned as well. "What is the matter?" Gæl asked, his eyes narrowed as he surveyed the scene.

Margaretha's eyes prickled with tears. "I am so, so sorry." She cursed herself for not asking for help, for not remembering Hejsel's instructions exactly. For being orphaned, and then widowed. For not throwing herself into the sea, or running into the woods, instead of allowing herself to be captured and enslaved.

"It is an honest mistake," Hejsel told him firmly. "Anyone could have done the same."

"Yet this is the first time it has happened on our farm, and on any farm of which I know." Gæl's grey eyes glittered with fury. "How much whey?"

"All of it," Margaretha said in a small voice. "I truly am sorry."

Gæl slammed his fist down on a table. "This is not Panym, and you are not a princess here," he told her through gritted teeth. Each word was like a sword through her belly. "You cannot be your selfish, wasteful self in the North."

"I am sorry," she repeated, trembling.

"Do not cry!"

She gulped down a few deep breaths and shook her head.

In the silence that followed, Vik raised his voice to speak. "You know… it tastes good."

Everyone turned to look at the ten-year-old. He had a knife in his hand, which he had stuck in the pot. A viscous brown mass now hung off its edge.

"You will eat anything," Gæl said dismissively.

Róry caught some of the whey cheese before it fell off Vik's knife. He put it in his mouth and chewed carefully.

"It is a little sweet, a little salty," he said after a while. His eyes widened, as if a great secret had been revealed to him. "Prim will love it."

Hejsel tried it for herself, then gave some to Pósy. "It is a bit grainy—it could be made smoother next time. And we can boil it for longer to make hard cheese. But yes, it is delicious."

"Next time?" Gæl echoed in disbelief.

"We should have vinegar from the raids," Peeta said. "We can use that, or brine, for pickling."

Finally, Pósy, who had been quiet all this time, could hold her tongue no longer. "Stop getting angry at her!" she burst out, reprimanding the eldest brother she adored. "Everyone makes mistakes. I hate it when you shout at her."

She turned on her heels and ran.

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

Gæl found Pósy in the old house—the thralls' quarters. She sat on the bedstraw, clutching at a bundle of cloth. Her face was dark with determination.

"Do you want to tell me what this is about?" he asked gruffly.

He pulled the bundle away from her, and realized it was Margaretha's white dress. "I am going to hide it from her," the little girl replied. "So she cannot fly away, and so you cannot make her leave."

"Fly away?"

Pósy scowled. "She must be a swan maiden, and you must be the man who took her powers from her. Why else would she stay here, when you are always so cross with her?"

Gæl sighed, and drew his sister to him. "She is not a swan maiden, Pósy. Otherwise she would have been a swan the first time you saw her, when she was still wearing this dress. She is here because she belongs to me."

"Like a wife?" she asked hopefully.

"No. Like... one of your dolls."

Pósy sniffed. "My dolls are not real, Gæl. Margaretha is a person. You cannot own her like a doll. Will you promise me you will not send her away?"

Gæl rested his chin on top of her head. "Why do you like her so much?"

Pósy ticked off the reasons on her fingers. "She is beautiful. She is very good at braiding my hair. She makes delicious porridge, and brown cheese that is sweet. She took care of me when I scraped my knee. She is clever, Mama says so all the time. She—"

"All right, all right," he interrupted. "You will run out of fingers and toes before you are through."

"—She is quiet and kind," Pósy continued. "She will be good for you."

Gæl kissed her forehead. "I am not going to fall in love with Margaretha, and she is not going to fall in love with me, just because you told us to. That is up to us, not you."

"But—"

"But yes, I promise not to send her away."

"Thank you, Gæl. I love you."

"I love you too, Pósy."

Not far from this tender scene between brother and sister, two blondes stepped away from their post at the door.

"What did Pósy call me?" Margaretha asked softly so as to not be overheard. "Earlier, when Gæl first entered. I have not yet learned those words."

"A swan maiden," Peeta replied. "The Northmen tell the same story to their children that our people do. You see, Margaretha, they are not so different, not so strange after all."

.

* * *

.

**AUTHOR'S NOTES:**

So very sorry for not updating last week! I was planning on uploading a different version of this chapter, but I definitely like this one better.

This chapter pays homage to my favorite Scandinavian cheese, known variously as brunost, mesost, gjetost/geitost, etc., which I first encountered in the spreadable version known in Norway as Prim (!) and in Sweden as messmör. Special thanks to **epipole** for supporting the idea, and for suggesting that the thralls display their knowledge of items unfamiliar to the Vikings. If I have made mistakes, they are all mine.

The pace is starting to pick up :) Margaretha isn't kicking Gæl's ass (yet), but she's beginning to hold her own. And our favorite blonde monk will find ways to spend more time with his shieldmaiden. I hope you're enjoying the ride!


	5. Chapter 5

The house Gæl had built for Katnisse last year was not the largest in Tolv, nor was it the most lavishly decorated. But it was evident even to the idlest observer that it had been constructed with tremendous effort and care. Gæl had worked tirelessly with Beetee on the design, and many able-bodied men worked long hours to bring their ideas to life.

Only the finest trees from the surrounding forest—the forest where Gæl and Katnisse had first formed their friendship—were selected. Unlike most other residences in Tolv, there were private sleeping quarters with its own hearth for the man and wife of the house. This was in addition to the main room in which the rest of their household was to sleep, eat, and work. After spending years with Róry's elbow in his face or Vik's knee in his back, Gæl made sure that his future wife would not have to endure the same.

It had not been enough to change Katnisse's mind.

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

_After his second failed proposal, Gæl did not come home for the night, and Hejsel ventured into the woods the next morning to search for him. She found her eldest son sitting in a clearing with his father's sword on his lap. The sword he would have given to Katnisse on their wedding day._

_She called his name._

_When he did not answer, she knelt down and put her arms around him. Her heart ached for her firstborn; her beautiful baby boy who had ceased to be a child long ago._

"_I know this is difficult for you, Gæl," she began, "but I think it is time for you to let Katnisse go."_

_When he finally spoke, his voice was so low that she strained to hear it. "How did you… how did you come to marry Father?"_

_Hejsel laughed softly. "I did not fall into his arms, if that is what you are thinking. Have I never told you that I was once in love with Eyvind?"_

_Gæl's head jerked upwards, and he looked at his mother in bewilderment. "Katnisse's _father_?"_

"_He was the most wonderful poet," she reminisced. "His voice was as clear as a summer's day. When he sang, even the birds would stop to listen. But his heart belonged to Katnisse's mother."_

"_And Father?"_

"_Hallvard was the most stubborn man that ever lived," Hejsel declared. "I was the only shieldmaiden in Tolv at the time, and I could not do anything right in his eyes. I remember swearing I would kill him myself. Every time I trained, I imagined throwing a spear through his thick head."_

_Gæl could not believe his ears. "Instead, you married him."_

"_That I did," she agreed. "The years that we were together… they were the happiest of my life. He gave me you, and your brothers and sister."_

"_What changed, that led you to marry him?"_

_Hejsel smiled. "He saved my life. Remember the scar on his shoulder? We were raiding in the East at the time. I was in the middle of a swordfight, and he took an arrow that was meant for me. Later, as I was bandaging his wound, I asked him why. Imagine my surprise when he said he had loved me all along. He said he was only hard on me because he wanted to ensure I could take care of myself in battle."_

"_And then you fell in love with him too."_

"_It took some time. I did not believe it at first. He was so handsome, there were rumors that he had already bedded half the girls in Tolv. The truth is that there were a few, but certainly not to the extent I was led to believe. He was a very good kisser."_

_Gæl winced. "I do not think I want to hear any more of this story, though I asked you to tell it."_

"_But you see, my son," Hejsel said, "if I had pined for Katnisse's father, you would never have been born. Sometimes we find love where we least expect it. Sometimes love finds us. And it is far, far more wonderful, terrifying, and precious than we can ever dream it could be."_

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

Beetee looked up in surprise when Gæl walked into his workshop the day after Margaretha made cheese from whey.

"Gæl," he said. "I thought you would be busy with the harvest. I have not set out any work for you."

The younger man sat down across from him, leaning forward and resting his forearms on his knees. "If there is nothing to be done, I would like to stay a while nonetheless. I hope you do not mind my company. My home has become rather crowded as of late… I try to get out as much as I can."

The shipwright nodded in understanding. "The thralls."

"Yes. I am not yet used to having them in my house."

"I am surprised you have never had any before, not even after you started raiding."

"My father took pride in our self-sufficiency," Gæl said. "He did not believe in obtaining thralls. We could certainly have used some help when he died, but without him, thralls were a luxury we could never afford. Even now that I have silver of my own, I find it is difficult for me to go against my father's example."

Beetee chuckled. "I suppose, on behalf of my people, I should be grateful for you and your father."

"Your people?" Gæl echoed. "Ship builders?"

His mentor looked highly amused. "Gæl Hallvardson, I hope you are not being obtuse on purpose."

The protégé was growing impatient. "Why would I do such a thing? Speak plainly, old man."

"I am descended from slaves," Beetee replied simply. "My great-grandmother was from Nubia; she was captured and taken to Morocco. Her child—my grandmother—was herself sold and brought to Spain. By some twist of fate, my mother ended up in the North. She was my father's thrall before he freed and married her."

He paused, eyeing Gæl. "Surely you did not think the color of my skin was brought about by the sun."

Gæl could only stare, his jaw slack. "Forgive me, Beetee. I did not know."

"Your parents did not tell you?"

"Nobody did. Not once."

Beetee considered this. "You yourself did not notice?"

In light of this new information, Gæl conceded that Beetee was slightly darker-complexioned than others, especially in the summer, and his features were not wholly Northern. "Now that it is revealed to me, I can believe it. But if you had never spoken of your family, I would not take you for anything but a full-blooded Northman."

"I have always thought that, because I am successful in my trade, people now know me for my achievements more than my ancestry. To my knowledge, you are the first one who never saw my ancestry at all." The older man smiled. "That is progress."

Gæl mulled this over. "Was it difficult for you as a child? To know your mother had once been a thrall?"

"She and I were fortunate, for my father loved us very much, and he never once allowed anyone to speak ill of us," Beetee replied. "He was a carpenter and a blacksmith. He raised me well, and he taught me all he knew."

"How do you—" Gæl hesitated. "How do you feel when the men take thralls? How do you feel about me, now that I have them in my home?"

"That is a good question," Beetee said. He looked thoughtful. "I believe slavery was born out of man's need to survive. In order to survive, one must be able to know the difference between an ally and an enemy. It is natural to assume that people who are different—because of the color of their skin, because of the gods they worship, or any other reason—are more likely to do us harm. It is better to be too suspicious than to be too trusting, for often this is what decides whether we live or die.

"But when we divide the world in such a manner… we lose our empathy," he continued. "The slaver who captured my great-grandmother did not see her as a human. He was not concerned about what would happen to her family without her, or whether her future master would be kind to her. He only saw her as an object to be handed over to the highest bidder."

"What of your father?" Gæl asked. "Did he love your mother right away, or did he first see her as merely his thrall?"

"I do not know," the older man said honestly. "I cannot even say if he would have fallen in love with my mother, had she looked more like her ancestors. But to answer your earlier question, young Gæl… I am of two minds. Of course I wish slavery did not exist. To a free man, captivity can be a fate worse than death. Yet I also recognize that if my great-grandmother had not been enslaved, I would never have been born. At the very least, I would have been born a different person, perhaps one without the good life I enjoy today. Perhaps I owe my happiness to the suffering of my ancestors."

"It is true, your life could have been worse if your ancestors had never become slaves," Gæl said. "But it could also have been much better."

"Aye. I ask the gods to protect all those who have been enslaved. I pray for all thralls to have my good fortune." Beetee looked at his apprentice. "I trust that you have been treating them well? The priest Peeta and—what was the young lady's name? I only remember that she was a great beauty."

"Margaretha," Gæl supplied. Her name felt strange and unfamiliar on his tongue, giving rise to sensations he did not have the words to describe. "Yes, I… well, not always… she is not my bed-slave, if that is what you are asking."

"I am glad to hear it."

He felt compelled to elaborate. "My mother would send me to my grave herself if I did so."

"Ah."

Still he plunged on. "But even if my mother approved," he added, licking his dry lips, "I do not think I can find pleasure in that." He blushed.

"You do not need to convince me."

They spoke no more of it.

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

With Beetee's words weighing heavily on his mind, together with Pósy's from the day before, Gæl could not sleep.

He had never given much thought to slavery. It was true, his father had refused to participate in it, but that was because he believed in an honest day's pay for an honest day's work. Hallvard's pride did not allow him to accept help without expecting to give anything in return.

His mother was less proud, which was why she had agreed to take Margaretha into their home. But since Gæl was a young boy, Hejsel had always made it clear that she abhorred the way that some people treated their thralls.

"Killing is one thing, but abusing is another," the shieldmaiden had said. "Those poor girls… To think that if our army had lost, it could well be me in their place."

"I pity the man who tries to rape you, Mother," Gæl had replied loyally.

"I can fight, yes, but for how long? What if I were injured in battle? And what if you have a sister or a wife, who cannot defend themselves as I can?"

She had touched his cheek, still smooth and without a beard then. "The time will come that you will be a warrior like your parents. May the gods always be in your favor, and may you always be a merciful victor."

Gæl thought of Margaretha—alone, without family, held captive in a land far from home. He shouted at her yesterday, and he supposed he could have been friendlier since her arrival. But he had always been the merciful victor his mother had described, had he not?

He sighed and rolled over onto his stomach. Finn was right; he did have a temper. He shouted at everyone. But even he had to admit that he was quicker to anger when it came to her.

It was not that he hated Margaretha. Why would he? She had never slighted him in the least. Even though she was highborn, she never put on airs. She worked hard and without complaint. She was generous with her smiles, especially with the children. The only thing was that, even with her increasing mastery of Norse, she spoke little if at all. It was as if she desired nothing more but to fade into the background.

(Of course, she could never fade into the background. She could be standing with her back to him, in a crowd full of other women with her build and coloring, and he would always be able to recognize her effortless grace.)

The truth was that she was a painful reminder. From all accounts, she had never needed to work a day in her life until she was captured. She was an only child who never had mouths to feed, and whose parents were able to care for her until she was old enough to marry. She had never huddled for warmth with starving children who depended on her for their continued existence. She had never feared death when the food and firewood had gone but winter had not.

Beyond that, she was a Saxon. Like the man who killed Gæl's father in battle. Like the priest who had now caught Katnisse's eye, however vehemently she denied it.

Katnisse.

Perhaps more than anything else, having Margaretha in his home was a painful reminder that Katnisse was not. The young shieldmaiden was his dearest friend, his most trusted companion. But, as hard as he tried to convince her otherwise, she did not want to be his wife. Katnisse would never belong to him.

And then there was his thrall. Margaretha was not a prize; that would imply he had wanted her in the first place. Surely it had not been his intention to win her when he killed the man standing by her side at her wedding feast. But by some trick of the gods, she was now his. She was making his food. She was taking care of his siblings. She was already doing everything a wife would do for her husband.

Almost everything.

Though, had he been willing, he could have had her long ago.

Deciding that further attempts to sleep were futile, Gæl eased himself out of the bedstraw. He fumbled in the dim light of the fire until at last his hand closed upon his shirt and breeches. He dressed himself quietly.

He walked, slowly and stealthily like the hunter he was, to the main room where his mother slept with Vik and Pósy held close to her. He allowed himself a small smile. How lucky Hallvard had been, when he won Hejsel's love.

Pulling his cloak from where it hung on the wall, Gæl's eyes fell on the vessels that contained the thrall's accidental invention. He had not yet tasted the cheese for himself. His mother had informed him that neither had Margaretha.

He took some cheese and bread with him, taking a first bite before walking out into the night.

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

It was as if his thoughts had summoned her to him.

Margaretha jumped when Gæl put a hand on her shoulder, muttering something under her breath. If he did not know any better, he would have thought she had called him a stinkfart.

"I am not causing any trouble," she told him. "I will return to my quarters soon. But for now, I beg you, leave me in peace."

"Margaretha, I—" Gæl faltered. "It was wrong for me to lose my temper yesterday. I am sorry."

He held out the cheese and bread. A peace offering. "You should taste what you have made. My family spoke the truth… it is delicious."

"If it were not delicious," she said, her voice hard, "would you have apologized?" She was not making this easy for him, but he knew he deserved it.

"Yes," he answered immediately. "Regardless of how it tasted, I should not have reacted the way I did. My anger did not solve the problem. It did not accomplish anything."

She lifted her chin and looked him in the eye. "Good. On this we can agree."

Her words were calm but pointed, and she held his gaze steadily, as if daring him to defy her. Where had the quiet, submissive girl gone? What would it have been like to know Margaretha in another life, a life in which she was not his thrall?

"Eat with me," he said, breaking off a piece of bread and cheese.

She looked at him suspiciously.

"Just one bite," he urged. "If you do not like it, I will go back into the house. I promise."

She pulled away when he held the morsel to her lips. "What are you… I am not a child!"

"You smell like one," Gæl surprised himself by saying.

Blonde eyebrows shot up. "What?"

"You do," Gæl insisted. He had always kept his distance, but now he was engulfed by her scent. "You smell like Pósy, Vik, and Róry all did when they were babies." It brought out a primal need in him to take care of her.

She frowned, but she accepted the food he offered. "Just because I smell like a child—if that is even true—it does not mean you should treat me like one."

"Do not worry, if I treated you like a child I would be rather good at it," Gæl said. "I am already raising three children, all more troublesome than you."

"You have just met me," she replied. "You have no idea how troublesome I can be."

He lifted an eyebrow. "We shall see about that."

Gæl watched Margaretha take a bite. In the moonlight he could see the way her pale pink lips parted, how her teeth sank into the bread and cheese. How the expression on her face changed from hesitation to pure bliss.

"It _is_ good," she marveled.

He had to chuckle. "You sound surprised."

"This is the best mistake I have ever made," Margaretha declared as she took another bite.

"Your porridge was not a mistake," Gæl reminded her.

She looked at him triumphantly. "Are you now admitting that you enjoyed it?"

"It was… an acquired taste."

"You acquired three bowls of it."

"Yes," he agreed. "Yes, I did."

The corners of her mouth turned up in a smile. "I accept your apology, and I hope you will accept mine. I grew up… I am a solitary person. I have always tried to solve problems on my own. I know now to ask for help, or wait until I can do so. I am still learning."

Gæl held her gaze. "So am I."

.

* * *

.

**AUTHOR'S NOTES:**

This chapter was intimidating to write. I didn't want to romanticize slavery and Stockholm Syndrome—well, not more than I already was anyway. It was tricky because these _were_ the norms in the Viking Age (and truthfully in the 21st century we still have some ways to go) but I also want to portray genuine kindness and understanding. I hope that I was able to strike a balance.

In their youth, Gæl's parents pillaged Eastern Europe, a favorite plundering ground of the Swedes in particular, and likely the place where most of the Eurasian technology around archery got passed on to the Vikings. Many thanks to **epipole** for sharing her love of history and archaeology! I am learning so much from her and from all the awesome resources online and in print, beyond those I referenced in the first chapter. I'm thinking of starting a separate section on my Tumblr page to document the research and thought process that goes into this fic, as a way to share the geekery without spamming everyone with author's notes that are longer than the story itself.

Speaking of the thought process, **Solaryllis** helped me hash out where I wanted the story to go, and gave me wonderful writing advice. For that I am deeply grateful.

I promised y'all some Everlark, but it got pushed to the next chapter because I got carried away by all the Gadge. Not to worry, Katnisse and Peeta are on their way!


	6. Chapter 6

Contrary to what one would expect, Peeta was not the religious one in the family.

Or rather, it had not always been that way. Peeta was the youngest son, the last of three strapping blonde boys. As was custom, his eldest brother Mattheu was groomed from childhood to take over their father's modest but productive farm. The second son, Josef, was to be given to the Church. Peeta, the third son, was expected to become a soldier and die in the service of the king.

He was, as his mother had called him, after years of labor had caused her to grow weary and bitter, "the spare".

Until one day, that fateful day when the young men and women of the village drew lots to decide who would be given as tributes to the tyrant King Coriolan, the day Josef pulled out the shortest straw.

Peeta would never forget a single excruciating memory of that day. The king's men surging forward, binding Josef's arms behind his back. His mother thrashing, sobbing, collapsing into a heap on the ground. His father, his back bowed and his spirit broken, uttering the low, guttural moan of a dying animal.

It was a sound that haunted Peeta's every waking hour. Even when he left the farm and came to the monastery, the memory of it rendered his soul rigid with fear.

(Thus saith the Lord; A voice was heard in Ramah, lamentation, _and _bitter weeping; Rahel weeping for her children refused to be comforted for her children, because they _were_ not.)

Until one day, another fateful day after the Northmen came and made the river flow with the blood of holy men, the day Peeta threw himself into the sea.

Peeta would never forget a single moment of that day. The freezing water, like being cut by a thousand knives all at once. Pinpricks of light blurring and fading as he sank deeper into the darkness. Into oblivion.

And then—suddenly—salvation.

"I did not spare your life just to let you drown," Finn had said, saltwater dripping from his hair and his beard. His eyes were green like the first shoots of leaves in the spring.

Haymið's fingers had wrapped around the cross on Peeta's chest. "Your life is not yours to end."

Perhaps the jarl meant that Peeta's life, like his freedom, was now in the hands of the Northmen. But, whatever his intention, Haymið's words removed all fear from Peeta's heart. The fear he had carried since his brother was taken away. At that moment, the monk felt transformed. He was like a newborn babe, innocent and wondrous, his whole life ahead of him.

(_He is_ a new creature: old things are passed away; behold, all things are become new.)

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

And it came to pass that Peeta proved himself to be indispensable to Haymið's household, and indeed to the jarl himself. He grew to love the North, finding that his nightmares had no power over him there.

But if there was one thing that he missed from the monastery, it was his work. What little peace Peeta found in his former life, he found in painstakingly copying scripture. He could spend hours mixing pigments and applying gold that was hammered thinner than a feather. The older monks praised his work and unanimously agreed that the young man had a keen eye for art, beauty, and harmony.

Haymið knew this, and made sure to find quills, inks, and other materials for his thrall when they plundered Panym. Margaretha's wedding feast had been an exceptionally rich resource.

When Peeta was sent to Gæl's home, he brought these with him. But between work on the farm and his new friend's language lessons, he had scant chance to use them.

So when the rare idle moment presented itself—Gæl had been in unusually high spirits, and did not give him more work to do after finishing his tasks early—Peeta gathered his things and ventured into the forest to draw.

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

Someone was singing.

_Forget your woes and let your troubles lay  
And when again it's morning, they'll wash away._

The voice was unmistakably female, but stronger and richer than anything else he had ever heard, drawing him in like the legendary song of a siren.

_Here it's safe, here it's warm  
Here the daisies guard you from harm_

The singing was growing louder, a sure sign that its source was near, but still Peeta moved forward, enraptured. It was like he was drowning again, this time not in the sea, but in a voice that seemed too beautiful to be real.

_Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true  
Here is the place where I—_

Katnisse screamed.

The sound jolted him out of his reverie, pulling him back to the surface and into the present. Back to—

Peeta could not turn around fast enough. He clutched his charcoal and parchment to his chest, as if they could silence the wild thrumming of his heart.

But it was too late; the image of the shieldmaiden's naked form had seared itself into his mind. Her glorious, glistening skin. The sun glancing off the curves of her hip and her strong, shapely legs. She was a thing of beauty such as he had never before seen. _Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned._

"I—I am sorry," he stammered, his back to her . "I did not mean to disturb you."

When she did not respond, he spoke again. "Katnisse? Are you all right? I did not mean to—"

"I know you did not mean to," she said at last. A heartbeat, then, "You can turn around."

The monk slowly turned to face her, keeping his eyes on the ground.

"It is quite all right. I am dressed now."

Peeta lifted his gaze and found Katnisse in her usual shift and apron, wringing water out of her long, dark locks. Their eyes met and she smiled sheepishly.

"Washing day," she said by way of explanation.

She adjusted the oval brooches on her apron and Peeta could hardly stop himself from recalling the perfect roundness of her breasts. He reflexively lowered his hands, so that they would come to rest in front of his loins.

"You were singing," Peeta said, desperately grasping for something else to think about. "It was the most beautiful thing I had ever heard."

This seemed to embarrass Katnisse even more than the thought of him seeing her naked. "No-one has heard me sing in a long time. Not… not since my father died."

"Your father was a great poet," Peeta said. Knowledge of poetry was essential in a warrior, and Haymið had always said Eyvind's skill in this regard was unparalleled. "I know his work well. And yet I have never heard this, or any other song of a similar meter, until today."

"It was my lullaby," she said quietly. "Mine and Prim's. He would sing us to sleep with it. It is not for other skalds to sing. It was… not meant for anyone else to hear."

Peeta felt a wave of regret and sorrow wash over him, knowing that he had trespassed upon this most precious of secrets. "Now I am even more sorry."

"It could not be helped," Katnisse said, shrugging. "And if a man had to see me, I am glad it was you."

He could hardly believe his ears. "You are?"

"Because you are a priest," the shieldmaiden replied matter-of-factly. "A priest of Christ. You are not ruled by such desires as other men have."

"Oh," Peeta said. "Yes, of course."

Suddenly he remembered training with her, the way she felt underneath him as she squirmed to break free of his grip. How _he _felt, the few times she had managed to pin him down. _Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned._

"Are you here to wash as well?" Katnisse asked, running a comb through her damp hair. She gestured towards the stream. "You can go ahead. I promise not to look," she added solemnly.

"No," the monk managed to say. "I was not planning to bathe until later. I… I came here to draw."

She stepped closer to him, close enough for Peeta to breathe in her wildflower scent. "Draw?" she repeated.

"Yes. The trees and the sunlight, the flowers and the stream." _But they are nothing compared to you,_ he thought. If he could only capture her beauty and her kindness, distill her essence and keep it with him at all times.

"I should like to see your drawings," the shieldmaiden told him. "Will you be at the feast?"

"I suppose so," he said uncertainly. Haymið held a feast every year, after the harvest. Peeta had attended the year before, when he was new to Tolv.

"I will make sure Gæl brings you," Katnisse said. "You make sure to bring your drawings."

Peeta nodded. "I shall be counting the days." He meant every word.

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

If there was anything that Peeta knew to expect from a feast hosted by the jarl of Tolv, it was that there would be enough mead and ale to baptize the whole of the North.

"Ah, if it is not Gæl Hallvardson himself," Haymið proclaimed, raising his drinking horn as their party approached. "Here to return my thrall?"

Gæl merely replied with a noncommittal grunt.

Haymið turned to Hejsel. "His eloquence notwithstanding, you have raised a fine young man, and one of the best fighters I have had the honor to raid alongside. You must be proud. Hallvard would have been proud."

"Thank you, Haymið," the former shieldmaiden said. "I know in my heart that this is true."

The jarl's eyes fell on Margaretha. "And you, my dear, are even lovelier than I remembered. It would seem that life in the North suits you."

Margaretha was already halfway through a curtsy when she remembered that such obeisance was foreign to the halls of the Northmen. "You are too kind, my lord," she said stiffly.

Haymið clapped Peeta on the back. "Her Norse is excellent," he said with pride. "You have taught her well."

The jarl turned back to his prized warrior. "It would seem to me that Peeta's work is done," he told Gæl.

"I will make arrangements for his return," the younger man replied.

"Very well. I shall expect him in my household within another day or two." Haymið took a swig of ale. "But for now, let us celebrate."

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

There was a man staring at her.

Margaretha fidgeted nervously, alternately crumpling and smoothing her apron. He looked vaguely familiar, but try as she might, she could not place where they had met, or if they had even met at all. After all, she had only been in the North for two months, and nearly all of that time was spent with Gæl's family.

Perhaps he was related to Gæl, or to Katnisse? He had the same dark hair and grey eyes, and similarly symmetrical features. The thought made her slightly resentful. Were there any unattractive people in Tolv?

Margaretha felt herself backing away when she realized that the stranger was advancing towards her. Could he read her mind? Had she let her guard down, and allowed her feelings to show on her face? She looked around frantically for Peeta, but he had disappeared into the crowd with Katnisse. Hejsel and Gæl were off to one side, with Finn and Anni.

"Hello," the stranger said kindly. "We meet again."

"Um," she replied, flustered. "Hello."

"You do not remember me," he said, looking disappointed.

"Forgive me," she said. "I am a little overwhelmed. Everything is new to me."

He smiled. "That is true. And perhaps it is difficult to recognize one whom you have only seen covered in blood."

It was as if a fog had lifted from her mind. "You!" she gasped, bringing her hands to her mouth in amazement.

It was him. The man who pulled the blonde warrior—a berserker, Peeta had called him—off her, the day they raided her wedding feast. The man standing before her now, he had most certainly saved not only her life, but her virtue too.

He reached out and pressed her hand to his lips. "We were never properly introduced. I am called Thome."

"I am called Margaretha."

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

"—eating me out of house and home," Finn was saying, an affectionate hand on the swell of Anni's belly. "The baby cannot come soon enough."

"The baby knows that winter is almost here," Hejsel told him. "It would rather stay in her womb, where it is safe and warm. Gæl was that way as well, before he was born. Gæl?"

"Mmph," he muttered, his thoughts elsewhere.

First he had seen Katnisse lead Peeta out of the hall. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he had noticed Thome walking across the room to Margaretha and striking up a conversation with his thrall.

Now Thome was kissing her hand, and it looked like he had no plans of letting go.

Gæl gritted his teeth. He knew his friend had wanted her from the start, he had even fought Cato for her, but Haymið would never stand for this. _If he does not let go in ten seconds,_ Gæl decided, _I am going there myself. One... two... three..._

He was about to move towards them when a cry of pain stopped him in his tracks. He turned around in time to see Anni fall back into her husband's arms.

"The baby," Anni said, her face pale. "It is coming."

.

* * *

.

**AUTHOR'S NOTES:**

Technically it's still Thorsday… *embarrassed* My apologies for the tardiness. There was one last scene I wanted to wrangle in, but couldn't make it happen.

Today's trivia: the Icelandic word for Saturday is _Laugardagur_—literally, "_laugar (_pools) day" or "washing day". Vikings were known to take baths once a week, a practice that others considered excessive at the time. Yep, Vikings were the clean ones! Maybe it was all that blood they had to wash off...

Follow-up on Chapter 5: after all my worrying about romanticizing slavery too much, it seems I have the opposite problem :) I want to clarify that I use the terms "thrall" and "slave" interchangeably, not because I think thralls were treated as poorly as slaves elsewhere, but because I believe "slave" is a valid, generic term for the unfree in any culture. I took my cue from various academic and popular sources, including a book (in English) by an award-winning Danish historian (referenced in Chapter 1) that also used the word "slave" in this manner.

To avoid confusion, I will use the word "slave" less from now on, limiting it mostly to non-Viking POVs. (I've also gone back and made minor edits to previous chapters, to the same effect.) However, I do not want to stop using the word "slave" altogether. Even though there were laws protecting thralls, and the general consensus is that thralls were treated very well, in the end they were still not free. I think we can agree that whenever there is a power imbalance, there will always be potential for abuse.

Thank you so much to everyone who contributed their thoughts on this subject, Scandinavian or otherwise :) I'm glad for the opportunity to have this discussion.


	7. Chapter 7

When Anni's labor pains began, the jarl's wife swept in and took command. Eyfri instructed her thralls to take Anni next door to the jarl's residence, where she could give birth while the feast continued in the hall. "What a big, big day this has turned out to be!" Eyfri gushed as she bustled about.

They found Peeta and Katnisse outside. "What are you doing here?" Eyfri demanded.

The two of them jumped apart. "Looking at drawings," Katnisse said without a trace of guilt.

Anni moaned in pain. Finn, who was carrying her, looked alarmed.

"Katnisse, go and fetch your mother," Eyfri ordered. "This might be a difficult birth."

"Difficult?" Finn cried out. "What do you mean?"

"Silly man," Eyfri chided him. "Can you not tell?"

"Tell _what_?"

Eyfri gently placed her hand on Anni's enormous belly. "Your wife is having twins."

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

"So…" Jórunnr said slyly, when she and Katnisse were on their way to get Katnisse's mother. "Drawings, eh?"

Katnisse ignored her friend's knowing tone. "Yes, drawings. Peeta is a marvelous artist, and I have asked him to help me record my parents' knowledge of edible and medicinal plants. With my father gone and my mother not as she once was, I do not wish to lose the valuable lessons they have taught to me and Prim."

"I am not worried about Prim," Jó laughed. "But I can see why _you_ would need a record, brainless."

It was times like these that Katnisse wondered why she was friends with Jó.

Or rather, she knew why, but it was times like these that she questioned the wisdom of it.

Jó was the only other shieldmaiden in Tolv, and she was a berserker to boot. She had lost her sister to sickness at a young age, and while she never said so in as many words, she looked at Katnisse as somewhat of a surrogate. She lavished onto the archer all the love—and all the relentless teasing—that she would have given a true sister.

"I cannot believe that, after multiple marriage proposals from the mighty Gæl Hallvardson, it would take a meek little Christian priest to melt the icy heart of Katnisse Eyvindsdottir."

Katnisse clenched her jaw. "For the thousandth time, I am not in love with Peeta. And I cannot believe _you_ are accusing _me_ of having an icy heart. I have refused one man, while you have rejected countless others."

"It is no fault of mine that they failed to defeat me in a fight," Jó said breezily.

"Not everything has to be settled by a fight," Katnisse reprimanded her.

"I fight; you moon over pretty Saxon men," Jó shrugged. "To each their own."

"Have you been talking to Gæl?" Katnisse asked suspiciously.

"It is harder to get a word out of Gæl, than for a shit to come out sideways," Jó pronounced. "Why do you ask?"

"He is like you, convinced that I love Peeta."

"Interesting, then, that we separately came to the same conclusion."

"Peeta and I are just friends. Although—" Katnisse bit her lip.

Jó's ears perked up at the slight change in tone. "Yes?" she asked eagerly.

Katnisse turned bright red. "Nothing," she said.

"You would not have mentioned it if it were nothing."

The archer finally relented. "He saw me naked. Last washing day."

"_In the name of all the gods_," Jó hollered. "Why have you not told me until now?"

"It is not a subject that comes up naturally," Katnisse defended herself. "And besides, he did not do anything. He turned away immediately, and apologized over and over again."

"How did he come upon you?"

"I had just finished bathing in the stream—"

"The stream in the forest?"

"Yes."

"The forest where you and Gæl go."

"Yes, what of it?"

"In all the years I have known you, you have never bathed outdoors, by yourself, somewhere your lovelorn hunter could find you. Somewhere any half-witted man could find you."

"That was not a choice I made on purpose," Katnisse said sourly. "I just… never thought to bathe there before."

"But now, apparently, you do. Now that Peeta is living with Gæl, and would certainly be wandering thereabouts." Jó watched in amusement as her friend squirmed in silent discomfort. "Why did you reject Gæl, to begin with?"

Katnisse sighed. "Have you forgotten? I have sworn never to marry."

"I would never marry a sullen idiot myself, but Gæl would certainly be good for a great many things other than marriage." Jó wagged her eyebrows. "And you were not open to any of those things, it seems."

"I would never have a relationship with someone I did not intend to marry," Katnisse said, scandalized. "It is just not in my nature."

The way that Jó looked at her compelled Katnisse to explain herself. "It is my parents' fault, I suppose," Katnisse said grudgingly. "They were so in love. And when my father died, a part of my mother died as well. To love someone so much that his absence would change who you are… that is my greatest fear. But at the same time, it is the only reason I would ever want to marry someone."

The smile on Jó's face was sincere. "That was beautiful, Katnisse. I never thought you were capable of such eloquence."

"I am Eyvind's daughter, remember?" Katnisse said. "There is another thing. When Father died, leaving a family of three women behind, Haymið went to visit us. He counseled my mother to find another man and remarry immediately, saying it was the only way we could survive the winter. When she refused, the jarl turned to me. I was twelve years old, and some girls my age were already married or betrothed. He gave me the same advice: to marry as soon as possible, so that my family could be provided for by some man. And it made me so _angry_."

Jó's countenance darkened. "If Haymið told me that, I would surely kill him."

"I know now that he was merely being practical, but at the time I felt like he was insulting my father's memory, and trampling on everything I learned from my parents about love and marriage. So I told Haymið I would never marry, and as the years passed nobody gave me cause to reconsider."

"Not even your best friend?"

"I felt—betrayed, I suppose, when Gæl said he wanted to marry me. I thought we understood each other, but I was wrong. All the efforts he made to convince me—reminding me of the benefits of formally uniting our families, building a house for me—they were the same arguments Haymið had made when I was twelve. That was not what I wanted."

A lump formed in Katnisse's throat, but she carried on. "Perhaps that is why I am so comfortable in Peeta's company. He is a thrall, with nothing to offer me in the way of wealth or property or security. He is a priest, sworn to never know the marriage bed. With Peeta I can be myself, the way I am with you, the way I am with Prim. The way I was with Gæl."

"What if Peeta were to renounce his vows and take a wife?" Jó ventured. "Gæl's new thrall, Margaretha, for example. She is beautiful, and she is from Peeta's homeland. They have been inseparable since the day they first met. It is only a matter of time, I think, before Haymið frees Peeta. Who knows? Maybe Gæl would free her, too."

The thought had never occurred to Katnisse before. "Well, then… I would support Peeta, because he is my friend. Whatever makes him happy."

"And what if it were me?" Jó teased her.

Katnisse scowled. "Peeta could never beat you in a fight."

"A lovely little boy like Peeta could persuade me to change my policy." Jó cackled. "He would not even have to renounce his vows. I have never seduced a priest before. I imagine I shall enjoy it greatly."

"You would not dare."

"I am your friend too, am I not? Would you not want me to be happy?"

"That is not happiness, Jó," Katnisse rebuked her. "That is—"

"Bliss," Jó supplied, grinning. "Ecstasy. Raw, unbridled sexual fervor. I could go on."

"Jó!"

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

After Katnisse left with Jórunnr, Peeta made his way back to Margaretha. His eyebrows shot up in surprise at the sight of Thome still holding her hand. "Thome," he greeted the warrior.

"Peeta," Thome replied cordially.

"What is going on?" Margaretha cried.

Peeta's smile was like the sunrise. "It is the most wonderful news," he told her. "Eyfri says Anni is having twins."

"Twins," Margaretha said dumbly. The word made her dizzy.

"Yes, twins," Peeta repeated. "Are you all right?"

Thome touched her arm. "What is wrong?"

"I—I have to go," she mumbled. She could not breathe.

She stumbled into Gæl's arms on her way out of the hall. "Margaretha," he said, engulfing her narrow wrists in his large hands. He looked stricken. "What happened? Did Thome—"

"Please," she croaked. "I just need some fresh air."

Gæl led her out of the hall and watched helplessly as his thrall retched into a nearby bush. As it happened, Haymið and Beetee were just passing by, and the shipwright shot his apprentice a look of disbelief.

_It is not what you think, _Gæl wanted to shout. _I never touched her, I swear._

"Let me handle this, Gæl," Haymið told him.

"But—"

"Go back inside."

Beetee put his hand on Gæl's shoulder and steered him back into the hall, shaking his head.

"You told me—" Beetee began sternly.

"I was telling the truth!"

The door closed behind them, and Haymið turned to look at Margaretha. "You look far too sad for such a joyous occasion."

Margaretha hurriedly wiped the moisture from her eyes. "Tears of happiness, my lord."

Haymið smiled ironically. "Dear Margaretha, I did not achieve my station by being easy to fool."

"I did not mean to offend you—"

"Of course not. No offense was taken." The jarl looked up at the night sky. "Tell me, Margaretha, do you know why I gave you to Gæl?"

"I—" Margaretha was confused. Why was he asking her this now? "Because by killing my husband, he won the right to me."

"That was one consideration, and a rather convenient one at that," Haymið conceded. "But it is not the whole truth."

"Then why, my lord?"

"Gæl is a complicated man," Haymið said. "He is full of fire, as you have doubtless learned for yourself. But he is tempered by his love for his family. He had the benefit of being raised by a strong mother, a shieldmaiden no less, who would never allow a woman to be abused in her home. And when all is said and done, he is his father's son, and Hallvard was the most honorable man I have ever known. His pride and his sense of justice was... maddening, to say the least, but we all respected him for it. He was the one man in Tolv who never took a thrall, not for labor, not for pleasure, not even for appearances or status. If I could trust one man in Tolv not to harm you, it would be the son of Hallvard and Hejsel."

"I thank you for your concern, but you have given me more questions than answers," Margaretha said. "Why do you care so much about my welfare? Why did you not bring me into your own household, where you could see for yourself how I was treated? For that matter, why capture me at all?"

"Perhaps," Haymið said, "this will make things clear." He dipped his hand into the collar of his shirt, that he might reveal what he was wearing around his neck.

It was a mockingjay medallion.

Margaretha gasped. She had tucked her medallion into the folds of her wedding dress, into the bundle Pósy had mistaken for swan maiden garb. She slept with her hand on it every night.

"How did you—" she began. "That belongs to me!"

"It is mine," Haymið corrected her. "Maysilleigh gave it to me, to remember her by."

The blood drained from Margaretha's face.

"The first time I saw you at your wedding feast, I knew," Haymið said. "You are the image of the woman I loved when I was myself sixteen. Are you her child?"

"She was my aunt," Margaretha whispered. "My mother's twin sister. She died when I was just a baby… I do not have even a single memory of her."

Haymið nodded sadly. "For a moment I had believed… I had hoped against hope you were Maysilleigh's daughter. Hers and mine. You would be the right age."

Terror struck her heart. Was it possible? "No," Margaretha said. "It cannot be."

"The mockingjay, is it not the sigil of your mother's house? Why do you not carry the sigil of your father's house?"

"My father was an orphan," Margaretha said. "He was a ward of my mother's family. When they married, she took his name, but they kept her sigil. It… it has a special meaning." The mockingjay was a symbol of rebellions past. Of a revolution that was yet to come. Or at least, that was what Lord Undersee and Earl Heavensby were working towards, before their demise.

"I suppose it does not matter," Haymið said. "You remind me of her, and that makes you precious to me."

"How did you know her?"

"It was my first time to go on the summer raids and I had gotten separated from the other warriors. She found me half dead, and she took care of me. I was never as good a fighter as Finn or Gæl, or their fathers before them. My strength is in my cunning."

"How long were you… together?"

"Only for one month, just until I was rescued. I wanted her to come back with me to Tolv as my wife, but she did not want to leave her sister."

Margaretha nodded. She was told that her mother was once a high-spirited woman, full of life and vigor. But after Maysilleigh's death, Lady Magthilde became somber and withdrawn, prone to headaches and nightmares. She was never the same again.

"How did she die?" Haymið asked. "Please. I must know."

"She… she was ill for a long time," Margaretha said. "I am sorry, but that is the extent of my knowledge. It pained my mother to speak of her beloved sister's passing."

The grief etched in the jarl's face was something Margaretha would never be able to forget in a hundred years.

"It was not meant to be," Haymið said at last, his voice heavy with sorrow.

"But you have moved on," Margaretha reminded him. "You have a beautiful wife, with whom you have many children." Young children, she realized. Despite herself, her heart went out to Haymið. He had waited for a long time.

The jarl nodded. "Eyfri made me smile when I thought I could never again do so. She and our children are all I have. I thought I had no regrets until I saw you. You, Maysilleigh's own flesh and blood. I knew I had to take you away from Panym, away from the horrors Peeta had described to me. But out of respect for Eyfri, I did not want to install you in my own household."

"What if you had been right?" Margaretha dared ask. "What if I were truly your child and Maysilleigh's?"

"Then I would recognize you as mine," he replied. "I would buy you from Gæl and grant your freedom."

"But it was not meant to be," Margaretha said, echoing the words of the man who, in another life, might have been her father.

Haymið reached out and touched her cheek. In his dreams, she would always be his daughter.

"No," he said regretfully. "It was not."

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

Sufficiently convinced that Margaretha was not pregnant and that Gæl had not made her his bed-slave, Beetee let his apprentice go. Once allowed to take his leave, Gæl immediately sought out the last man he had seen in his thrall's company.

"What did you do?" he demanded. "It was something you did, something you said, that made her so upset."

Thome was pouring himself more ale. "Hello yourself, my friend," he said calmly.

"It was not Thome's fault," Peeta said. "She seemed affected by the news that Anni was having twins."

Gæl glared at Peeta, and the thrall fell silent.

"I am glad you are here, Gæl," Thome said. "I have not seen you for a while, though I do not blame you. If I had your thrall, I would never care for anyone else's company."

"You could have visited us at my home at any time," Gæl replied evenly. "You would not have needed to wait until now to get acquainted with her."

"Haymið forbade the men from approaching you regarding her. He also forbade us from approaching her without other men and women present."

"That is news to me," Gæl said. "But it explains a great many things." He recalled Cato's hateful glare, coupled with the berserker's uncharacteristic silence and inaction, from earlier.

"However, here you are now, approaching me," Thome said. "Therefore I would like to speak to you, as one man to another."

"As one man to another," Gæl said. "Speak freely."

Thome drained the contents of his drinking horn and set it down firmly. "I would like to buy her from you. Name your price."

In many ways Gæl expected this—it was only a matter of time—still, it caused him great distress to hear the words from his friend's lips. "Margaretha is not for sale," he said.

"Did Haymið say so?"

"No," Gæl said slowly. "But I made a promise to my sister that I would not send Margaretha away, and that is worth more than any oath sworn to the jarl. Pósy is very much smitten with her."

"So am I," Thome said. "You knew this to be true from the very start."

Gæl nodded. "I am sorry, but I cannot."

"We are good friends, are we not?"

"Aye."

"Then you know I will treat her well. I will free her and marry her. Surely your sister will agree to let her go, if it means her freedom."

"Is it really freedom if it is granted for the purpose of marriage?" Gæl found himself asking. "True freedom means allowing Margaretha to choose whom she wants to marry. Would you still free her, if you knew she would choose another?"

Thome raised an eyebrow. "I did not know you felt so strongly about it. If that is the case, then you should free her yourself, and I shall present myself as a suitor. From the little time we spent talking, I am confident she will return my love."

Gæl felt his blood boil. _How can you be so sure? _he wanted to ask. _You have spoken with her for but five minutes. I have lived with her for two months, and she is still a mystery to me. _

"I told you," he said, trying not to sound like a petulant child, "I made a promise."

"You promised not to send her away. Freeing her does not mean sending her away. By your own definition, freeing her will give her the choice of staying or leaving of her own accord. Therefore, sell her to me as a thrall, or release her so I can win the heart of a free woman. I do not understand why you are being so difficult."

"You are the one being difficult," Gæl argued. "You cannot tell me what to do with my own thrall. That is none of your business."

Realization dawned in his friend's eyes. "You have had her," Thome accused him.

"I have not!"

"You have taken the virtue I fought to protect." Thome stepped closer until they were almost chest to chest. He was nearly as tall as Gæl.

Gæl was vaguely aware that a crowd had begun to form around them. "Margaretha owes you nothing. Even if I had been the one to save her that day, her virginity would not be mine to take."

"You love her, then," Thome said. "That can be the only reason."

Before he knew what he was doing, Gæl's fist connected with Thome's jaw, fueled by a rage he never knew he was capable of.

Thome touched his face, feeling where the bruise would start to form. He let out a hollow laugh. "Does she know?" he taunted Gæl. "Have you confessed your desire for her?"

When Gæl did not answer, Thome snorted. "I know you, Gæl Hallvardson. We grew up together. I know of all the girls you took to that wrecked ship in the harbor."

"If I recall correctly, that was a favorite pastime of yours as well," Gæl said. "And besides, that was a long time ago."

"That is true," the other man agreed. "That was before Katnisse. It makes one wonder… how would Margaretha feel, knowing she could never compare to Katnisse? That even after you inevitably take her and get her with child, she would always share your heart with another?"

Gæl's vision turned black and for a moment his senses registered nothing but the metallic clang of his sword leaving its sheath.

"Put that away, Gæl," another voice warned. It was Bristl.

Bristl had one hand on Gæl's chest, another on Gæl's sword. "It is always entertaining to watch men fight over a woman, but you are both dear to me, and I do not wish to lose either of you on the day Finn's children are born."

Gæl lowered his sword. "For your sake, I hope I will never see you speaking to Margaretha again," he said, addressing Thome.

Thome's grey eyes glinted. "Ah, but you have caught yourself in a predicament, Gæl. If you keep her as a thrall, you cannot marry her yourself. But if you free her, you know I will be here waiting."

.

* * *

.

**AUTHOR'S NOTES:**

Special thanks to **barbarella-1980** and **Belle453** for their thoughtful gifts. I love the Gadge community so much.

Today's trivia: Gæl's father was named after Hallvard Vebjørnsson, the patron saint of Oslo, who was martyred while trying to protect a pregnant thrall. Katnisse's father was named after two known skalds.

Haymið is younger here than in the books. This takes place 16-17 years after he met Maysilleigh, not 24 years like the difference between Haymitch/Maysilee's Games and Katniss/Peeta's.

If you were wondering where Hejsel was while Gæl was picking fights, she was with Anni. :) I swear Thome is a nice guy, but sometimes a nice guy can turn into a Nice Guy™. Also, I heard that Suzanne Collins meant Bristel to be a girl, but here Bristl is a dude.

It is disputed that shieldmaidens ever existed, which is why I've compromised by putting in fewer female warriors than in the Hunger Games trilogy. But we will meet a few more strong women later.

I thought for sure I would get around to the actual childbirth in this chapter, but I had way too much fun with the scene between Jó and Katnisse. Many more important developments on the way!


	8. Chapter 8

A commotion from inside the hall drew Haymið back to the feast, leaving Margaretha outside and alone with her thoughts.

_Imagine if it were true_, she mused_. Imagine if Haymið had been your father, if Maysilleigh had sailed away with him to the North. You would have been born and raised right here in Tolv. You could have become a shieldmaiden like Hejsel used to be, like Katnisse is now. You could have been _friends_ with Katnisse. You never had friends in Panym. _

Her imagination was running away from her, and she could not bring herself to stop it. _You would not have needed to marry Lord Seneca for protection. You could have fallen in love, real love, by now… with Thome, perhaps, or Finn if he was not such a preener, or maybe even—_

Gæl emerged from the hall, his face red, looking angrier than she had ever seen him. He kept flexing his elbow, shaking his wrist and stretching his fingers as if they pained him.

Margaretha's instincts took over. She stepped out of the shadows, reaching out to still his arm and capture his hand in both of hers. "You are hurt," she said, bringing his knuckles up to her face for a closer look. She thought she could see the beginnings of bruising, as if he had punched something—or someone—with all his might.

At first it seemed as if her touch startled him, even frightened him. But then grey eyes met blue, and he relaxed visibly. "It is nothing," he told her, looking down at their joined hands. His was large, tanned from the summer raids, rough and scarred from years of hard labor on the farm and even harder fighting on the battlefield. Margaretha's were tiny in comparison, and so pale they were almost translucent, though much more callused than they had been before she came to Tolv.

"What was going on in there?" she asked, turning his hand over to inspect his palm.

"There is always some fighting at feasts," he said evasively. "It is to be expected when men have weapons and too much to drink. Some would say it is not a good feast until blood is shed."

"There are times when I think I am starting to understand the ways of the North," Margaretha said, releasing his hand. "Then something like this happens and everything confounds me all over again."

"What happened to you earlier?" Gæl asked, changing the subject. "Did Thome do something to upset you?"

"No, of course not," she assured him. "He was kind to me. He reminds me of the gentlemen back home."

"Does he," Gæl said. It was a statement, not a question.

"He told me you were friends."

"We grew up together."

"That must have been fun," she said, smiling. "I am envious."

Gæl looked at her suspiciously, as if trying to find some hidden meaning in her words. "You were vomiting into the bushes," he reminded her. "Are you ill? Are you—" His eyes widened. "Did your husband get you with child before—before he died?"

"No, nothing like that," she hastened to say. "I was just… overwhelmed. I am not very good in large crowds, and then Anni—" Her voice wavered. "My mother had a twin sister. Both of them are dead. I know this must sound horrible but when I see Anni's babies, I… I am afraid I will just fall apart."

Tentatively, Gæl reached out to her and for a moment Margaretha thought he might touch her face like Haymið had, or press his lips to her hand like Thome had. But he let his arm fall back down his side.

"I know how you feel," he said. "Mother was pregnant with Pósy when Father died. I remember looking at her swollen belly and thinking, how can I ever look at this baby and not remember my father's death? What justice was there in the world, that I would get to know this child and my father would not? And beyond that, how could I ever help my mother raise three young children? I was fourteen years old, and I had never been so terrified in my life."

Margaretha wanted nothing more but to smooth the worry from his creased forehead, but whatever paralyzed him was affecting her too. "Then Pósy was born," she said. "And she changed everything."

Gæl nodded. "Do not be sad. If Anni truly does have twins, they will give you hope, not fear. They will remind you that wherever your mother and aunt are, they are together. They are happy."

She had never thought of it that way.

"Thank you," Margaretha whispered. "Your words are a great comfort to me."

He gave her a crooked smile, and at that moment a half-formed thought chose to complete itself in her mind.

_Maybe even Gæl._

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

On the other side of the wall, the feast continued on, the dull roar of drunken men talking and laughing occasionally punctuated by sudden outbreaks of violence. Not too far away, from inside the jarl's residence, Anni's wails rose and fell like the waves of the sea.

But for the warrior and his thrall, it was as if they were in their own little world.

"It must be so wonderful to have siblings," Margaretha said wistfully. At some point Gæl had tired of standing and decided to sit on the ground, tugging her down next to him. "I was told that my mother and her sister could read each other's minds, feel each other's pain. They could never bear to be apart. And though I have not lived with your family for very long, I can see how much you love Pósy and your brothers. It makes me realize what I have been missing."

"It is not always so easy," Gæl admitted. "Róry used to idolize me. He would follow me around everywhere, do everything I did. Now, he never listens to anything I say. He talks back, turns everything into a joke… I was not like that at his age. It is like he does not respect me."

She chewed her lip thoughtfully. "Did he start to change when he was… nine years old? Ten?"

The question took Gæl by surprise. He stared at her. "How did you know?"

Margaretha pulled her knees up under her chin and shrugged. "I do not presume to know Róry's thoughts, but… if the way he treats you has changed, it must be because the way _you_ treat _him_ had changed first. And Hejsel told me that you changed a great deal after your father died. You had to grow up faster, work so much harder. That would have happened when you were fourteen, and Róry was nine."

"I did not want to change," he protested. "I had to, in order to support my family. I could not remain a boy forever. I had to become a man."

"I know that. Róry knows that. That is why I think… I think this is Róry's gift to you."

"The gift of wisecracks and questioning my authority?"

"No," Margaretha said, smiling. "The gift of treating you as his brother. The gift of _letting _you be his brother, and nothing more. To Vik, you are infallible, the courageous warrior who fights in foreign lands and returns with wealth beyond imagining. To Pósy, you are ever so much more than a brother—you are the only father she has ever known. Róry is the only one who truly remembers you as you used to be. Róry understands that you gave up what was left of your childhood, so that he could keep what was left of his. I believe… in his own way, he is trying to lighten your burden. He is trying to tell you that you do not have to be a warrior or a father to him. Everything he needs you to be, you already are."

Gæl's heart lurched in his chest. He thought back to all of his interactions with Róry since the day the longboats brought home their father's dead body, and he knew it was exactly as Margaretha said. "Did he tell you this?"

"No, but I can see in his eyes that he does respect you. He loves you. If I were him, I would feel the same way."

"I… I do not know what to say."

"Say you will try to understand Róry better, instead of immediately assuming he is undermining you."

"_You_ understand him," he found himself saying. "You, a stranger. A foreigner. You understood him, better than his brother ever could, without even trying."

Margaretha laughed, twisting a stray curl around her finger self-consciously. "I do try," she corrected him. "I do."

Gæl had a sudden urge to know everything about her, all the thoughts that ran through her head, every desire of her heart.

_You love her_, Thome had said. _That can be the only reason._

"Tell me about your family," Gæl said.

"There is not much to tell," Margaretha whispered, casting her eyes downward. "They are dead. I am all that is left of our bloodline."

"The dead live on in the stories that we tell," he said. "Please."

"I have already mentioned my mother and her twin sister. My father—" she hesitated, "—my father was Panym's master of coin, and he plotted with the earl to overthrow the mad king."

Margaretha's voice was steady as she told him about the taxes and the human tributes. How her father was betrayed, how she fled in the night to the sanctuary offered by Earl Heavensby, how her parents went up in flames for their treason.

"Lord Seneca and I were betrothed last year to justify my presence in his home. We were married this summer and, well…" She licked her lips. "You know the rest."

Gæl felt as if he should apologize for killing her protectors, but he did not know where to start, and in any case it would not change a thing. "Did you love him?" he asked instead, the question coming out in a rasp. His throat was dry.

"We rarely spoke to each other, but he was always kind to me when we did," she said. "I think he may have loved another."

"And you?" he asked, feeling lightheaded as he did so. How much ale did he have to drink tonight? "Do you—did you love another?" He thought of Thome approaching her, talking to her, kissing her hand and not letting go. His stomach churned.

_You love her_, Thome had said. _That can be the only reason._

Margaretha pressed her lips together and stared off into the distance. After what seemed like an eternity, she shook her head. "I have never been in love. At least, I do not think so. Perhaps my idea of love is very different from the reality of it."

She turned her eyes on him. "What is it like?"

"What do you mean?"

"Being in love," she said matter-of-factly. "Perhaps if you tell me what it feels like, I will recognize it when it happens to me."

"I never said I was in love."

"You did not have to," she told him. "I see the way you look at Katnisse. You are a good match."

Gæl let out a short laugh. "You should have been here two years ago to tell her that."

Margaretha looked at him expectantly. "You have not answered my question."

What _was_ it like to love someone? Thus far, love had caused Gæl nothing but pain and disappointment. He tried to remember those early days, the heady rush when he first discovered his feelings for Katnisse, the thrill in his veins whenever he saw her waiting for him in the forest.

"It happened slowly. I started noticing little things about her, started wanting to spend more time with her. Then one day I knew in my heart that I would fight for her. I could die for her. I have heard that others fall in love at first sight, but for me it was like…" He searched his mind for the right words. "Love is like a fine rain that falls little by little, but it falls harder every day, and you do not realize how deep the waters have become until you start to drown."

_You love her_, Thome had said. _That can be the only reason._

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

"Well, I never," Jó said as their horses slowed down to a stop in front of the jarl's longhouse. "It looks like you and I will not be competing with her for Peeta's attention after all."

Katnisse's ears burned as she dismounted and offered a hand to help Prim do the same. She tried to avoid looking at Gæl and Margaretha, who were sitting together outside the hall—almost in the exact same place where she and Peeta had pored over his drawings earlier that evening—but one glance had been more than enough.

They were not kissing, nor were they locked in an embrace as other couples would have been at this juncture of the feast. In fact, they were not touching at all. But from the way they were talking, paying no heed to what was happening around them, it did not matter. Katnisse could scarcely imagine a scene more intimate, more meaningful, than the one playing out between her best friend and his thrall.

Was this what people used to see whenever they saw her with Gæl, before his proposals drove a wedge into their friendship? Was this what Gæl and Jó saw now, when they saw her with Peeta?

"I never thought Gæl could _talk _so much," Jó said, shaking her head. "Who knew?"

_I did_, Katnisse thought. She and Gæl used to spend hours in the forest reminiscing about their fathers. It was one of the things she enjoyed so much about their partnership.

"Róry and I had a bet," Prim said, sounding disappointed.

"Whether they would get together or not?" Jó asked.

"No," the younger Eyvindsdottir replied. "Whether it would happen before wintertime, or after."

Jó nearly fell off her horse laughing.

Katnisse and Prim's mother Gísla, who had been riding with Jó, was the one who finally addressed what the others did not. "It seems you have gotten your wish," she said, turning to look at her eldest daughter. "I hope you do not come to regret it."

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

"Women _only_!" Eyfri screeched when she opened the door.

"You insult me, Eyfri," Jó said, running a hand through her short, spiky dark hair. "I am sure I am woman enough for anyone."

"No, I did not mean that," the jarl's wife said hastily. "Peeta was here earlier, wanting to help. He is such a dear boy, truly a lovely boy, but I am making too many compromises as it is."

She waved everyone inside. "Please, everyone, come in. I am so glad you are here, Gísla."

In the North, all families needed knowledge of healing to survive. But none were better known for their skill than Eyvind's wife. Her busiest times were right after the summer raids, when the warriors returned with bones to set, wounds to treat, and dead comrades to mourn.

And then came the day that Eyvind's lifeless body was the one heaped upon the funeral pyres, and a heartsick Gísla retreated from the world.

But the healer always had a soft spot in her heart for Anni, and in a few short strides she was at the younger woman's side. "What is this?" she asked, surprised.

Eyfri threw her hands up in exasperation. "Finnbjorn would not take no for an answer."

Anni was kneeling in the largest wooden tub they could find, her pale face damp with perspiration. Her long, dark hair was loose and in disarray. Hejsel poured warm water down her back; one of Eyfri's thralls sat by the fire, heating more water. As for Finn, he knelt outside the tub, clutching his wife's hands.

"Being in the water soothes her," Finn said stubbornly.

Anni nodded weakly.

"Well, it is not traditional, but it cannot hurt," Gísla said. She glanced around the room. "Have all the knots in the house been untied?"

"Yes," Hejsel said. "Finn unknotted them all. It drove him half mad that he was not allowed to tie them back up again."

Gísla patted Anni's anxious husband on the back. "You can tie all the knots you want when this is over. We just need to make sure that her womb is similarly free from obstructions."

Anni screamed.

"I am never letting you touch me again," she gasped, gripping Finn's hands tightly as she said so.

"Now, now, let us not say anything we will regret later on," Finn said, kissing her knuckles. "You are doing wonderfully, my love. Just a little more."

When the pain became unbearable and Anni swore she was being cleaved in two, Eyfri and Hejsel helped her out of the tub. Gísla arranged Anni into a squatting position, her arms draped around Finn for support while the healer waited from behind.

In the background, Prim sat offering runes to Frigg and Freyja, while Jó and Katnisse tried to look anywhere else but at Anni.

"Forget my policy of single combat," Jó whispered. "The man who wants to put a child in me will need an introduction from Odin himself."

Katnisse cringed as Anni screamed again. Her fleeting jealousy over Gæl and Margaretha was all but forgotten. Sentimental talks about their fathers, the familiarity of an old friend—none of that would convince her to put herself in Anni's position right now. "Forget love," she whispered back. "Insanity is the only reason why I would willingly subject myself to all of _this_."

Finn yelped as Anni bit down on his shoulder.

"I can see the head," Gísla said suddenly. "Not too long now."

When at last the piercing cry of a newborn rang through the night, Katnisse finally released the breath she did not even know she was holding.

"It is a boy," Katnisse's mother said. "And there is another."

"What did I say?" Eyfri said triumphantly. "Twins!"

"A boy, my love," Finn said, kissing the tears that were falling down his wife's cheeks. "A boy like Ulf." Ulf was Anni's brother, who was killed by raiders from another village when she was just a young girl. "Please, just a little more. For Ulf. For the twins. For me."

"I am so tired," Anni sobbed. "I cannot do this anymore."

And then Jó was there, rubbing Anni's back and offering words of comfort. "Yes, you can," Jó said tenderly. "You are so brave, Anni. You will be the best mother in the world, I know it."

The shieldmaiden gestured for Katnisse to join her. "Come here," she mouthed.

Katnisse looked at Prim. "Go," Prim said. "What are you waiting for?"

She approached them cautiously. "We are all here for you, Anni," she whispered as she knelt beside the new mother. "Take our strength. Take everything that you need."

Anni's large green eyes filled with gratitude. With Jó holding her right hand, Katnisse holding her left, and Finn embracing her with all that he had, she pushed once more.

"It is a girl," Gísla pronounced, her voice brimming with happiness and relief. "Healthy and whole, like her brother."

Jó and Katnisse broke away from Finn and Anni, that they might see their children for the first time. Hejsel handed Finn a knife so he could cut the cords.

"Are you _crying_, brainless?" Jó demanded, sniffling loudly.

Katnisse pawed at her face. "Of course not. Are you?"

"Berserkers do not cry," Jó declared.

They threw their arms around each other and laughed through their tears.

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

"They are so beautiful," Peeta said in wonder, marveling at these tiny versions of Finn and his wife. "What are their names?"

Anni gave her babies the lightest of kisses, one on each perfect forehead. "The boy shall be called Sægeirr, _sea-spear_, after the weapon that leads his father to victory."

Finn stroked his daughter's rosy cheek. "And the girl shall be called Unna, which means both love and the waves of the sea, two things that brought her mother to me," he said.

Anni had given birth later than expected, giving the twins more time to grow downy hair on their heads while still in her womb. Peeta could already tell that Sægeirr had inherited Finn's red hair while Unna would have Anni's dark locks.

"Would you like to hold them?" Anni asked gently.

Peeta balked. "I am afraid I do not know how. I was the youngest of three, and there were no infants in the monastery."

"There is nothing to fear," she assured him. "Your heart will tell you what to do."

Anni carefully placed Unna in his arms.

"See? You are a natural," Anni said. "You would make a wonderful father."

Peeta opened his mouth to correct her, to say he would never become a father, but the words did not come. For he had never felt as close to heaven as he did in that moment, holding little Unna close to his heart.

He cleared his throat. "Hello, little one," he said. "My name is Uncle Peeta."

She stirred in his arms. Everything about her was so _tiny_—her lips, her nose, her little hands and miniature fingernails. She was nothing short of a miracle.

When he looked up, Finn and Anni were kissing. Slowly, carefully, a perfect balance between contentment and passion.

He did not notice Katnisse until she was almost upon him.

"You look so happy, Peeta," the shieldmaiden observed.

He blushed. "I was just remembering something my brother Josef had said to me, when I was a young boy."

"What was that?" she asked.

Peeta looked down at Unna, then back at Katnisse. "'To love another person is to see the face of God.'"

**.**

**ooo**

**.**

Gæl kept his hand on the small of Margaretha's back as they entered the jarl's home and wove through the crowd to find the new parents and their children. He told himself he was merely guiding her, helping her navigate an unfamiliar place, knowing that large gatherings frightened her.

Still, he hoped Thome could see them, wherever he was.

"Geilir," Finn's voice boomed. "And the lovely Margaretha. Come, come see the perfection I have created."

"I am sure the perfection came from Anni's side of the family," Gæl deadpanned as he thumped his friend on the back.

Finn grabbed him in a bear hug, lifting the taller man off the ground. "Oh, Geilir, always so in touch with your emotions."

It seemed as if Anni, from her position lying back on the bed, had Margaretha in a similarly affectionate embrace. The women were whispering excitedly in each other's ears.

The men looked on in amusement. "I cannot believe this is the first time they have met," Gæl said.

Finn grinned. "Babies will do that."

"So where are these perfect babies of yours?" he asked.

"With my two favorite shieldmaidens," Finn chuckled, gesturing to the side.

"Katnisse and Jó?"

"Katnisse and Peeta," Finn hooted, laughing at his own joke.

Gæl turned and, sure enough, there they were—Katnisse and Peeta, carrying a matching set of babies, surrounded by a fawning Prim and Jó. He waited for the familiar prickle of jealousy to come, the one that always came whenever he saw the shieldmaiden and the priest together.

This time, however, it did not.

Anni called out from her bed. "Finn, Margaretha has never held a baby before, either."

"Well, then," Finn said, beckoning Katnisse and Peeta to come closer. "She is in luck, for not everyone can say that my children were her first time."

Katnisse carefully passed the sleeping child to the thrall. "This is Sægeirr."

"Oh, Finn," Margaretha whispered. "He looks just like you."

The redhead beamed. "He has my hair."

"I know," she exclaimed. "How precious."

"He would look better with dark hair," Gæl said. "In my opinion."

"Unna has dark hair," Katnisse said, smiling fondly at the baby in Peeta's arms.

Margaretha held Sægeirr closer and inhaled deeply. "Is this the scent that you spoke about, Gæl?"

Gæl leaned in and sniffed the baby's head. "Not quite," he said. "It will grow even sweeter over time."

She sighed happily. "I cannot imagine anything smelling sweeter than this. But I will take your word for it."

"You will know it once you smell it," he promised. "It is a little like fresh milk and butter. It will make you want to hold on and never let go. Of the baby, I mean," he added quickly.

Margaretha kissed Sægeirr's little nose. "You were right, Gæl," she said sincerely. "They give me hope."

A noise on the rooftop caused them all to look up. "What was that?" Peeta asked.

Gæl watched Margaretha coo quietly to the child in her arms. _He would look better with dark hair._

"Rain," he said. It was late in the season, but he was certain. "It has started to rain."

_I love __her_.

.

* * *

.

**AUTHOR'S NOTES**

I broke the 4,000-word barrier at last! *dies*

Today's trivia: My sources say _Unna_ means "love", while _Unnr_ means "waves, billowing". So... close enough, I hope. :) It was hard to find anything definitive about Viking childbirth, but I did find references to midwives untying knots and loosening saddles to symbolically make childbirth easier. And we all know who likes his knots! Water births were almost certainly not a thing, but I couldn't really picture Anni giving birth/laboring any other way.

The quote attributed to Peeta's brother is, of course, from _Les Misérables_.

Like in canon, Mrs. Everdeen ships Gale with Katniss.

Hope you liked it! :)


	9. Chapter 9

_They are in the forest again. _

_Peeta watches, entranced, as Katnisse comes to him. Her hair is long and loose, the way it was on the day he found her singing her father__'__s lullaby. It streams behind her like a gossamer veil floating on a gentle breeze. He had always thought her beautiful, but today she is radiant like the sun._

_There is a bundle in her arms; a baby girl with dark hair. He thinks it is Finn and Anni__'__s daughter, Unna, until she opens her sleepy eyes to reveal that they are as blue as a summer sky._

_His heart is so full, he is afraid it might burst._

"_Mine?" __he asks softly, even though he already knows the answer._

_Katnisse nods. In her silver eyes, he finds peace. He sees the future. __"Ours."_

_And then she kisses him softly, her eyelashes fluttering on his skin like butterfly wings. __"Peeta," __she breathes. His name on her lips is sweeter than honey. __"Peeta."_

**.****  
****ooo****  
****.****  
**

"Peeta. Peeta, wake up." Gæl was prodding him with his foot. "It is time to go."

_Not yet,_ Peeta thought, struggling against consciousness for a little while longer, clinging to the feeling of Katnisse's lips on his. Alas, it was too late. Even as he desperately grasped at the last wisps of his dream, they were already slipping through his fingers, disappearing through the cracks in his memory.

It was not uncommon for revelers to spend the night in the feasting hall, on account of being too drunk or too tired to make the journey home, but in this case he had dozed off in Haymið and Eyfri's house. He had fallen asleep sitting down on the ground, leaning against the wall, with a piece of parchment in his hands.

"It is a good drawing," Gæl acknowledged gruffly.

Peeta traced the strokes of charcoal with his fingertips, the events of last night flooding back to his disoriented mind. The tables groaning under the weight of so much food, mead, and ale at the harvest feast. Katnisse gazing in fascination at the drawings he had brought with him. Anni giving birth to twins. His own rapture at holding little Unna, then her brother Sægeirr in his arms.

His last memory was that of drawing Katnisse, carrying Unna and glowing with happiness as she did so. By the time he had finally captured the light in her eyes and committed it to parchment, he had been awake for nearly twenty hours, and he had passed out in sheer exhaustion.

Peeta looked up, and looked around. Margaretha was sleeping next to him, as she did every night. The jarl and his family were most likely in their private room. Finn and Anni lay facing each other, with Sægeirr and Unna nestled between them.

His heart leaped when his eyes came to rest on his muse. There she was, not ten feet away from him, sleeping beneath the same roof as him. She was curled up with Prim and Jó. With her jaw unclenched and her guarded expression gone, Katnisse looked youthful, serene, and even lovelier than she was in his dreams.

"You should give it to her," Gæl said. "She will like it."

"You do not mind?"

Gæl paused for the briefest of moments, then shook his head. "Not anymore."

Another memory: Gæl's friend Thome, declaring his intention to make Margaretha his wife, and Gæl's unexpectedly hostile reaction.

"About Thome…" Peeta began hesitantly.

"I will be grateful if you do not speak about it to her." Gæl's tone left no room for negotiation.

"I will do as you say," Peeta said. "But I—I want to tell you that I admire what you said about freedom. If Margaretha knew, she would, too. I am glad that she is with you."

The warrior inclined his head ever so slightly in an almost imperceptible nod. There, in that moment, Peeta knew he had gained a new friend.

"My mother is already outside with the cart and the horses," Gæl said. "You should join her."

Peeta glanced at Margaretha. "Shall I wake her?"

"It is all right. Leave it up to me."

Peeta watched as Gæl knelt down and slid one arm under Margaretha's neck, and another under her knees, scooping her up as if she weighed nothing at all. She stirred at Gæl's touch, and for a moment Peeta thought she would awaken, but instead she nuzzled deeper into his chest, winding her arms around his neck as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Peeta cast his eyes down, feeling not for the first time like an outsider in someone else's story.

He tucked his drawing under Katnisse's hand before leaving.

**.****  
****ooo****  
****.****  
**

Katnisse awoke to the sound of the babies crying.

"Shh, shh," she heard Finn whisper. "Father is here. Mother is very tired, so let us be quiet and allow her to rest."

For all of his boasting and preening, Finn's singular devotion to Anni was well known, and no-one who saw them together could ever doubt their love. Katnisse would not be surprised if Finn, a skillful fisherman and the most highly regarded fighter in Tolv, proved to be an outstanding father as well.

The shieldmaiden's chest tightened as she recalled her own father: the rich baritone of his voice as he sung her to sleep, the strength of his shoulders when he hoisted Prim up over the crowds in town, the sparkle in his eyes when he held Gísla close.

For the first time, she felt—jealousy? Resentment? She had never given love a second thought since she was twelve and swore to always rely on herself first, instead of pinning her hopes on a man. Just last night, she was convinced that marriage and pregnancy and _childbirth_ went hand in hand with madness and that nobody, not even Finn or Gæl or her own father, was worth the suffering Anni and countless other women before her went through.

But after the twins were born, oh, the joy in Anni's eyes. Katnisse had never seen anyone look more alive.

"It is some sort of unearthly magic," Jó had pronounced. "A spell that babies cast on perfectly reasonable adults, to make them forget about the pain that comes with having children. And it is not only childbirth of which I speak."

Katnisse understood what her friend was trying to say. Jó had been inconsolable when she lost her sister, like Anni was when she lost her brother. Children died every day—of sickness, hunger, violence, or the unpredictable whims of the gods. Even if they survived to adulthood, tragedy still lurked behind every corner. It had come for her father and for Gæl's. If losing her father could cause Katnisse so much grief, what would it be like to lose her own child? Was it not infinitely better, never having had something, than to have it for a moment and then lose it forever?

Prim shifted in her sleep, and Katnisse adjusted her own position to accommodate her. As she did so, she heard a faint, vaguely familiar crackling sound under her hand.

Katnisse's mouth fell open when she realized what it was. It was a piece of parchment, a charcoal portrait of her holding one of the twins. There was no question as to the artist: the skill, the exquisite detail, it was unmistakably Peeta's handiwork. But even though it was plain to see that she was the young woman in the drawing, Katnisse did not recognize the smile that seemed to leap off the page. It was not a smile she expected to see on herself. She never thought she could look this… _happy_.

Her heart pounded in her ears. _Peeta_ had looked that happy; she distinctly remembered commenting on it out loud, then thinking to herself that it would be nice to have Peeta look like that all the time.

All this time, she had been denying that she was in love with Peeta, but she never once stopped to consider the reverse. Did Peeta love her?

It was not possible; he swore an oath to his god. And even if he did, even if she loved him back, it was not as if they could be together.

_It is only a matter of time, I think,_ Jó had said, _before Haymi__ð __frees Peeta._

No, not even then. The mere idea of it was absurd. It was madness.

_Insanity is the only reason why I would willingly subject myself to all of _this_._

Oh _gods_.

**.****  
****ooo****  
****.****  
**

"I am going to miss you a great deal," Margaretha whispered to Peeta, the night before he returned to the jarl's household.

She reached her hand out to him across the bedstraw and Peeta accepted, squeezing it firmly. "I will miss you, too. I am glad that we came to be friends."

"You were my first friend in Tolv," she told him. "Perhaps my first friend in the world. I do not know what I will do without you."

The young man chuckled. "If you need more language lessons, Róry will be more than happy to assist."

"It is not just that," she said. "I will miss our talks at night, like the one we are having right this moment. The stories about your brothers, about coming to the North; your thoughts about God and your philosophies… they all fascinate me so. Even in Panym, I did not have anyone I could talk to the way I could talk to you."

"You lie," he teased, wiggling their interlocked fingers. "I saw you at the feast with Gæl. The two of you were deep in conversation for hours. And these past few days, you have spent more and more time together. He actually _smiles _so much now, I can barely recognize him. The children have noticed how much he has changed. Pósy looks like she is going to explode with joy."

Peeta did not have to look at Margaretha to know that a blush was creeping up her cheeks. "That is different," she finally said. "That is Gæl."

"What does 'that' mean?" he wondered aloud. "Please, enlighten me."

"You know what I mean," she said. "He is my master. That makes all the difference."

Peeta sighed. "I suppose."

"You sigh," Margaretha said. "That means you are thinking of Katnisse."

He thought of denying it, but there was no use. "Am I truly that transparent?"

"Yes," she replied, smiling. "But it seems that you have finally admitted it to yourself, so that is progress."

"And have you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Have you admitted it to yourself?"

"What is there to admit?"

"Gæl," Peeta said simply. "You love Gæl."

"I enjoy our conversations," she said. "He has many opinions that interest me, and many amusing stories. I respect how hard he has worked to support his family. But everyone knows that he loves Katnisse. If you are hoping that I could tear him away from her, you are mistaken."

Peeta wished he had never made that promise to Gæl in the first place. He withdrew his hand and sighed again. "Let us not argue about this, Margaretha."

"I am sorry," she said in a small voice. "I did not want to argue about it. You took me by surprise, and I became defensive."

"It is of no importance. If you say you do not love Gæl, then I shall believe you."

It was not until much later, as he was falling over the precipice between awake and asleep, that Peeta realized Margaretha had not actually answered his question.

**.****  
****ooo****  
****.****  
**

Peeta waited until they were well out of earshot before he turned to Róry. "All right. Where are we going?"

"What do you mean?" Róry asked innocently, from where he was seated on his mother's horse. "I volunteered to bring you to Haymið, and that is where I shall take you. I have no ulterior motives."

"I was thirteen years old myself, not too long ago," Peeta reminded him. He rode in the cart with his meager belongings. "I never volunteered for anything that did not benefit me in some way. There is always an ulterior motive."

"I suppose we _could_ make a quick detour to visit Prim," Róry mused.

"You always visit Prim," Peeta pointed out. "You have never thought to bring me along."

"That is because my brilliant idea did not present itself until the night before," Róry said smugly.

"And what, pray tell, is this brilliant idea?"

"Their mother is visiting Anni today, but Katnisse watches Prim like a hawk," Róry explained. "But if you were there… she might not, and Prim and I would have some semblance of privacy."

Peeta groaned. "_Róry_. Were you eavesdropping on my conversation with Margaretha last night?"

"Of course I was," Róry said easily. "Do not worry, your secrets are safe with me. But speaking of which, thank you. There is a bet that I think I will be winning very soon."

**.****  
****ooo****  
****.****  
**

After her moment of clarity just days before, Katnisse did not expect to see Peeta again so quickly. Nor did she expect that it would take place in her own home, while she was surrounded by dead birds.

It was not the most romantic of scenarios.

Nevertheless, the sight of the handsome blond priest caused a quickening of her pulse and—if she were to be completely honest—in her womb. Peeta smiled shyly at her, seemingly unperturbed by the scene.

"Róry!" Prim cried, jumping up to greet Gæl's younger brother. Almost immediately, she sagged downwards, her legs giving way after hours of sitting. She and Katnisse had been plucking feathers and down off geese that had been boiled in water.

The dark-haired boy caught her by the waist before she landed on the ground. "I knew you were falling for me," he joked, kissing Prim on the cheek.

Prim blushed prettily. Katnisse scowled, blowing a strand of hair out of her face. Gæl's friend Bristl had called it the legendary Hallvardson woman-luck. She was glad that she herself never fell prey to it.

As for Prim, the younger Eyvindsdottir had carried a small but steady torch for Róry since she was ten years old. When it was decided that he would be staying with her and her mother over the summer, while Katnisse and Gæl went pillaging together for the first time, the prospect of spending every waking moment with Róry was almost enough to distract Prim from the very real possibility that her beloved sister would not return from the raids.

"Peeta is going back to the jarl's house," Róry said. "We thought it would be nice to visit our favorite girls along the way."

"We will not stay for very long," Peeta said. Katnisse noted that he did not dispute Róry's designation of the Eyvindsdottirs as their 'favorite girls'. "Right, Róry?"

"Why not?" Katnisse found herself asking. She cursed herself immediately afterwards. Why did she always want to go against what other people said?

Peeta looked surprised. "Well… we do not want to impose. And Haymið is expecting me."

"You have plenty of time," Katnisse said. An idle comment from conversations past resurfaced in her mind. "You promised to make me your famous lamb stew."

Out of the corner of her eye, Katnisse saw Prim and Róry exchange a meaningful look.

"Yes," Peeta said slowly. "Yes, I did."

"It is settled, then," Katnisse said. "You shall stay."

**.****  
****ooo****  
****.****  
**

Hours passed, and still there was no sign of Róry. Margaretha peered nervously out of the door, glancing up at the skies where ominous clouds had gathered on the horizon. "Should we be worried that he is not yet back?" she asked Hejsel anxiously.

"If I know my son, he has taken this opportunity to visit Prim," Hejsel told her. "I would not trouble myself about it."

Thunder rumbled in the distance.

**.****  
****ooo****  
****.****  
**

_Peeta__'__s imminent departure had inevitably broached the subject of sleeping arrangements anew._

"_Six people should fit nicely in the new house,__" __Hejsel said the day before. __"__It is bigger than the old house, and it has two rooms besides.__"_

"_I do not want to sleep next to R__ó__ry again,__" __Vik complained. __"He kicks."_

_Ró__ry scowled in response. __"__I only kick because you keep rolling over like a log going down a hill. In any case, there would be more space if G__æ__l shared his room. It is hardly fair for five people to squeeze into the main room, while he gets the other one to himself.__"_

"_I know who should share G__æ__l__'__s room,__" Pó__sy declared confidently._

_G__æ__l__'__s eyes flickered towards Margaretha. __"Pósy," __he said, __"__I told you__—"_

"_Me!" __the little girl crowed._

"_Oh," G__æ__l said. Margaretha thought she could detect the slightest hint of disappointment in his tone. __"__Well, in that case.__"_

"_Whom did you think she was referring to, G__æ__l?" Ró__ry asked sweetly._

_Margaretha__'__s cheeks were pink at the implication, but she silently shook her head, as if urging the eldest Hallvardson to remain calm. _Remember what we talked about.

_Once again, it was Hejsel who came up with the solution. __"__Margaretha, P__ó__sy, and I will stay in the private room,__" __she resolved. __"__You boys will stay in the main room.__"_

_The rest nodded their assent, and nothing more was said. _

_Yet for the rest of the day, and indeed for the rest of the night after Peeta had insinuated that she loved G__æ__l, Margaretha could not help wondering if G__æ__l had truly been disappointed at P__ósy__'__s answer. A traitorous voice inside her head told her that she, for one, was._

**.**  
**ooo**  
**.**

Margaretha was moving her belongings to the room Gæl had previously claimed as his own when the rain started to fall.

"Vik!" she heard Hejsel exclaim from the main room. "Look at yourself!"

"I was rushing to get out of the rain," Vik explained. "I slipped and fell."

_I should see if there is anything I can do to help,_ Margaretha thought as she put a bundle of her clothes down on the sleeping platform.

As it happened, the precise moment that she turned to leave was also the precise moment that Gæl barreled into the room, his clothes soaking wet.

A squeak escaped from her lips as she crashed into him. But Gæl had quick reflexes, and he grasped her shoulders to steady her. "Are you all right?" he asked.

Her hands, which Margaretha had put up to shield herself from impact, had landed flat on his chest upon their collision. Though his shirt, she could feel the beating of his heart. She realized what she was doing and rapidly pulled away.

"Yes," she managed to say. This had happened once before, at the harvest feast, before she vomited into the bushes. But they had not been alone in a bedroom, and he did not look the way he did now—water dripping from his brow, his shirt plastered to his lean torso and leaving next to nothing to the imagination.

_Silly girl_, she scolded herself. _It is just G__æ__l. _She tried not to think of what Peeta had said the night before, or yesterday's entire discussion over sleeping arrangements.

"I should go," she blurted out, and turned to run.

"Wait," he called after her, his voice muffled. "Come back. I need you."

Margaretha cursed herself for her inability to resist those words. She turned again, and nearly fainted.

"Help," Gæl said. "I seem to be stuck."

He sounded apologetic, but Margaretha could not check his facial expression to be certain. That was because he had started to pull his shirt off, but could not get it up past his shoulders. The result was that his arms were trapped above his head, and his face was lost somewhere in a sea of wool.

"Sit down," she ordered him, trying to ignore the broadness of his chest, the hard ridges of his stomach. The fascinating way his muscles responded to even the slightest movement. "You are too tall for me to reach."

He retreated blindly until the edge of the sleeping platform touched the back of his knees. He sank down obediently, careful not to sit too far back and get water on the bedstraw.

"Why are you wearing one of Róry's shirts?" she wanted to know, acutely aware of the heat emanating from his body as she positioned herself in front of him. She put her hands on her hips, trying to form a plan of attack. "You know they are too small for you."

"It has been raining for the past few days," he replied. "I have run out of larger shirts. Would you rather that I went shirtless?"

Margaretha felt her face flame at the thought as she struggled to yank his arms out of the sleeves.

"Pull it up at the sides," he suggested. "Under the arms."

Margaretha swore under her breath.

"Did you just call me a stinkfart?"

"Of course not," she lied.

"Yes, you did. I heard you."

"Then why did you ask?"

"I wanted to see if you would admit it."

For some reason this infuriated her even more. "Do you want my help or not?"

"Yes. I apologize. I will behave myself."

Margaretha moved closer, planting one leg between his knees for better support. She used her fingertips to work the sides of the shirt up slowly, gently, inching it higher and higher.

Gæl yelped as her nails scraped the side of his ribcage. "It tickles."

"You are such a big baby," she chided him.

She continued in this fashion until at last she managed to get the shirt past his broad shoulders. Once that was accomplished, Gæl bent over and shucked the rest of the shirt off. When at last he emerged, his face was flushed and his hair was tousled in a way that made Margaretha's mouth dry.

Now that the task was done, Margaretha realized how this would look to others. The warrior, naked from the waist up and wet from the rain, sitting on the edge of the sleeping platform. His thrall, holding his wet shirt in her hands, standing with her legs between his knees.

She wobbled slightly, and he reached out to steady her. Even through multiple layers of clothes, the feeling of his hand on her hip was enough to set her on fire.

In the end, Gæl was the one who broke the silence. "Thank you," he said with an impish grin, "for undressing me. It seems I have the rain to thank for that."

Margaretha stepped back and tried her best to look at him with disdain. "I am not going to help you with your breeches, so do not even think about it."

"By saying it, you have guaranteed that I will think about it," Gæl protested, his eyes lighting up merrily.

She tossed his wet shirt in his face and ran away.

.

* * *

.

**AUTHOR****'****S NOTES:**

Thank you everyone for patiently waiting for this chapter! I wasn't able to reach 4,000 words this time, but I hope you liked it.

Today's trivia: _Doona_, the Australian term for a down-filled comforter/quilt/duvet, traces its origins to _dúnn_, the Old Norse word for down (as in eiderdown).

Is it bad that I'm already daydreaming of stories featuring Sægeirr, Unna, the toast babies, and a small army of Gælsons/Gælsdottirs?


End file.
